Dais   Miller 


tional  Episode 

BY  HENRY  JAMES,  JR.,  ILLUS- 
TRATED FROM  DRAWINGS  BY 
HARRY  W.  McVICKAR 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS 

NEW  YORK  MDCCCXCH 


Copyright,  1878,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 
Copyright,  1892,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

/til  rights  reserved. 


DAISY  MILLER. 

PAGE 

Frontispiece  .        »        .       »       •        • 

Heading.     Part  I • 

Little  Polish  Boy 

Winterbourne        . » 

French  Waiter 12 

"If  you  eat  three  lumps"    .        .        .       .       t.        .        .16 

Randolph  and  his  Alpenstock       ...        .        .        .        .      21 

On  the  Lake  .        .        .      •"...'•       V.      •        •        •        •      25 

Randolph  alone      .        .        .     .".  .    '  '  •        •        •    '    »        •       28 

Alpenstock     .        .        .        .        •        •        .        .     -  .        .31 

Papa  Miller!  .        .        .        ..-    .    '   .        .        *        .        -36 

Hotels  Daisy  stopped  at        .       .       .       . 

Geneva  .        .        •        .        .      • .  .      .        ."       .        .        •      45 

Chillon  .        .        .        .     "  .        ...  .        .      48 

Old  Castles     .        .    '    .      ' .        .        .        .        .        .   51,  53, 54 

At  the  Boat-landing       .  ...        .        .        .57 

Crest  of  Switzerland .59 

Finis.    Part  1 61 

Heading.     Part  II.     Rome 63 

One  of  Mrs.  Walker's  Guests 66 

Violin 68 

Winterbourne's  Idea  of  Daisy  Miller 71 

"The  best  place  we  saw  is  the  City  of  Richmond  "     .        .74 
Decoration     .        .        .        .        ...        .        .        .        .76 

Mr.  Giovanelli        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .79 

The  Pope's  Arms  .        .        ...        •        .        .        .        .      81 

A  Corner  in  Rome         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .      84 

A  Quill-driver's  Tools    .         .        .        .        .        .        ,        .       87 

Tubes     .        .        .....        ...        .    . .  .  .      .      90 

Mrs.  Walker  . 93 

v 


PAGE 

Rood-screen  in  Old  Church 97 

The  Flag  of  Italy   .  ...... !     100 

An  Incense-burner m  jQ3 

Decoration  (Cardinal's  Hat)  ...  !     106 

Mrs.  Costello *.  '     109 

A  Bit  of  a  Roman  Garden .111 

Arch  of  Constantino 115 

Decoration !    119 

Colosseum  (the  Deadly  Miasma!)  .        .        .        !     122 

Eugenic ./..-.     [    125 

Requiem ".''....        .'  127 

Daisy's  Grave .131 


AN  INTERNATIONAL  EPISODE. 

Frontispiece         .        .        .        ...        ...        .135 

Tug- boats f    '.  137 

A  Bit  of  the  Battery !     139 

New  York  Docks .142 

Percy  Beaumont.  .        .        ...       .       .        .-      ..145 

Letter  of  Introduction .     147 

Lessons  in  American -.        .     149 

Types  they  met  Down-town .        .        .        .        ....     152 

Corner  of  Greenwich  Street  .        .     .• .       .       .       ...      .     154. 

Weather-vane  of  Church-steeple  .        .        .        .       ,        .    155 

Mr.Westgate 156 

View  from  Westgate's  Office        .        .        ....     159 

Fall  River  Steamboat-landing 152 

Impressions ...        .  "      .164 

Bookishness  of  Boston .        .        .  ^    .       .       ...    165 
On  the  Newport  Boat    .        .        .  .  -    •.        .        .     157 

Waiters  at  the  Ocean  House         .       .       .       .        .     168,  169 

Mrs.  Westgate        .        . '171 

A  Guest  of  Mrs.  Westgate      .    .    .        »       .      V      .        .175 
The  Web  Lambeth  is  Warned  Against         ....     178 

English  Hats 180 

The  American  Flag 182 

The  Pretty  Sister  of  Mrs.  Westgate iS5 

Money 189 

Newport  Rocks      .  192 

A  Bit  of  Newport  Farm-land 195 

Mrs.  Westgate's  Trap 200 

Thames  Street 203 

Two  Pretty  Girls 205 

vi 


PAGE 

Marquis  and  Duke's  Crown  .        .  -     .        .        .207 

Decoration     .        .        .  .        .        .        .        .     212 

Heading.     Part  IT.  .        .        .        .        .217 

Duke  of  Green-Erin       .        ...        .  .        .220 

Willie  Woodley      . .-  /.        .        .        .        .•"•.'.        .     227 

Decoration     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .     229 

The  Duchess's  Invitation      .        .        .....        .234 

Bessie  Alden          .        .  .        .        ^  '  .        .     237 

In  Hyde  Park         .        .-       .        .        .        .        .        .   "    .     239 

The  Duke       .        .  243 

Parliament  Buildings     ...        ,~      ....    247 

The  Gate    -     .        .        . 252 

Duchess  of  Suffolk  and  Lord  Chamberlain   .        ...     255 

Decoration     .        .        .        .-      .        .        .        .....     259 

Not  Such  a  Fool  as  He  Looks       .        .        .        .  .263 

Decorations 267,  273,  279 

The  Duchess's  Cards .        .283 

••Mrs.  Westgate  glanced  at  the  clock  "  '      .        .'     .        .284 
Bessie  is  Fond  of  Travelling         .      -  i  .        .        .285 

The  Duchess  .        .      ' 287 

Journal  .        ....        •        •        .        .        .        .        .        .     289 

The  Branches         .        .        .      .',      - .        .  ."'      .291 

Writing  .        .        .   •     .        .        .        .        .       -.        .        .293 

Decoration     .        .        .        .        .        .       „        .        .        .     295 

Finis      .....'...  .296 


T  the  little  town  of  Yevay,  in 
Switzerland,  there  is  a  particular- 
ly comfortable  hotel.  There 
are,  indeed,  many  hotels ;  for 
the  entertainment  of  tourists 
the  business  of  the  place, 
which,  as  many  travellers  will 
remember,  is  seated  upon  the  edge  of 
a  remarkably  blue  lake  —  a  lake  that  it 
behooves  every  tourist  to  visit.  The 
shore  of  the  lake  presents  an  unbroken 
array  of  establishments  of  this  order, 
of  every  category,  from  the  "grand  ho- 
tel" of  the  newest  fashion,  with  a  chalk- 
white  front,  a  hundred  balconies,  and  a 


dozen  flags  flying  from  its  roof,  to  the 
little  Swiss  pension  of  an  elder  day,  with 
its  name  inscribed  in  German -looking 
lettering  upon  a  pink  or  yellow  wall,  and 
an  awkward  summer-house  in  the  angle 
of  the  garden.  One  of  the  hotels  at  Ye- 
vay,  however,  is  famous,  even  classical, 
being  distinguished  from  many  of  its  up- 
start neighbors  by  an  air  both  of  luxury 
and  of  maturity.  In  this  region,  in  the 
month  of  June,  American  travellers  are 
extremely  numerous ;  it  may  be  said,  in- 
deed, that  Yevay  assumes  at  this  period 
some  of  the  characteristics  of  an  Ameri- 
can watering-place.  There  are  sights  and 
sounds  which  evoke  a  vision,  an  echo,  of 
Newport  and  Saratoga.  There  is  a  flit- 
ting hither  and  thither  of  "  stylish"  young 
girls,  a  rustling  of  muslin  flounces,  a  rat- 
tle of  dance-music  in  the  morning  hours, 
a  sound  of  high-pitched  voices  at  all  times. 
You  receive  an  impression  of  these  things 
at  the  excellent  inn  of  the  Trois  Cou- 
ronnes,  and  are  transported  in  fancy  to 
the  Ocean  House  or  to  Congress  Hall. 
But  at  the  Trois  Couronnes,  it  must  be 
added,  there  are  other  features  that  are 
much  at  variance  with  these  suggestions  : 
neat  German  waiters,  who  look  like  sec- 

4 


retaries  of  legation  j   ^  Russian 

princesses    sitting  in  the   garden ;  little 
Polish  boys  walking  about,  held  by  the 
hand,  with  their  governors  ;  a  view  of 
the  sunny  crest  of  the  Dent  da  Midi 
and  the  picturesque  tow- 
ers of  the  Castle  of  Chil-    ^ 
Ion. 

I  hardly  know  whether 
it  was  the  analogies  or  the 
differences  that  were  uppermost  in  the 
mind  of  a  young  American,  who,  two  or 
three  years  ago,  sat  in  the  garden  of  the 
Trois  Couronnes,  looking  about  him,  rath- 
er idly,  at  some  of  the  graceful  objects  I 
have  mentioned.  It  was  a  beautiful  sum- 
mer morning,  and  in  whatever  fashion 
the  young  American  looked  at  things 
they  must  have  seemed  to  him  charming. 
He  had  come  from  Geneva  the  day  be- 
fore by  the  little  steamer  to  see  his  aunt, 
who  was  staying  at  the  hotel  —  Geneva 
having  been  for  a  long  time  his  place  of 
residence.  But  his  aunt  had  a  headache 
—  his  aunt 
had  almost 
always  a 
headache — 
and  now  she 


was  shut  up  in  her  room,  smelling  cam- 
phor,  so  that  he  was  at  liberty  to  wander 
about.  He  was  some  seven-and-twenty 
years  of  age.  When  his  friends  spoke  of 
him,  they  usually  said  that  he  was  at 
Geneva  "studying;"  when  his  enemies 
spoke  of  him,  they  said — but,  after  all,  he 
had  no  enemies ;  he  was  an  extremely 
amiable  fellow,  and  universally  liked. 
What  I  should  say  is,  simply,  that  when 
certain  persons  spoke  of  him  they  affirm- 
ed that  the  reason  of  his  spending  so 
much  time  at  Geneva  was  that  he  was 
extremely  devoted  to  a  lady  who  lived 
there  —  a  foreign  lady — a  person  older 
than  himself.  Very  few  Americans — in- 
deed, I  think  none — had  ever  seen  this 
lady,  about  whom  there  were  some  sin- 
gular stories.  But  Winterbourne  had  an 
old  attachment  for  the  little  metropolis 
of  Calvinism ;  he  had  been  put  to  school 
there  as  a  boy,  and  he  had  afterwards 
gone  to  college  there  —  circumstances 
which  had  led  to  his  forming  a  great  many 
youthful  friendships.  Many  of  these  he 
had  kept,  and  they  were  a  source  of  great 
satisfaction  to  him. 

After  knocking  at  his  aunt's  door,  and 
learning  that  she  was  indisposed,  he  had 


taken  a  walk  about  the  town,  and  then 
lie  had  come  in  to  his  breakfast.  He  had 
now  finished  his  breakfast ;  but  he  was 
drinking  a  small  cup  of  coffee,  which  had 
been  served  to  him  on  a  little  table  in 
the  garden  by  one  of  the  waiters  who 
looked  like  an  attache.  At  last  he  fin- 
ished his  coffee  and  lit  a  cigarette.  Pres- 
ently a  small  boy  came  walking  along 
the  path — an  urchin  of  nine  or  ten.  The 
child,  who  was  diminutive  for  his  years, 
had  an  aged  expression  of  countenance: 
a  pale  complexion,  and  sharp  little  feat- 
ures. He  was  dressed  in  knickerbockers, 
with  red  stockings,  which  displayed  his 
poor  little  spindle-shanks  ;  he  also  wore  a 
brilliant  red  cravat.  He  carried  in  his 
hand  a  long  alpenstock,  the  sharp  point 
of  which  he  thrust  into  everything  that 
he  approached — the  flower- beds,  the  gar- 
den-benches, the  trains  of  the  ladies' 
dresses.  In  front  of  Winterbourne  he 
paused,  looking  at  him  with  a  pair  of 
bright,  penetrating  little  eyes. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  lump  of  sugar  ?" 
he  asked,  in  a  sharp,  hard  little  voice — a 
voice  immature,  and  yet,  somehow,  not 
young. 

Winterbourne  glanced  at  the  small  ta- 


ble  near  him,  on  which  his  coffee-service 
rested,  and  saw  that  several  morsels  of 
sugar  remained.  "Yes,  you  may  take 
one,"  he  answered ;  "  but  I  don't  think 
sugar  is  good  for  little  boys." 

This  little  boy  stepped  forward  and 
carefully  selected  three  of  the  coveted 
fragments,  two  of  which  he  buried  in 
the  pocket  of  his  knickerbockers,  depos- 
iting the  other  as  promptly  in  another 
place.  He  poked  his  alpenstock,  lance- 
fashion,  into  Winterbourne's  bench,  and 
tried  to  crack  the  lump  of  sugar  with  his 
teeth. 

"  Oh,  blazes  ;  it's  har-r-d  !"  he  exclaim- 
ed, pronouncing  the  adjective  in  a  pecul- 
iar manner. 

Winterbourne  had  immediately  per- 
ceived that  he  might  have  the  honor  of 
claiming  him  as  a  fellow-countryman. 
"Take  care  you  don't  hurt  your  teeth," 
he  said,  paternally. 

"I  haven't  got  any  teeth  to  hurt. 
They  have  all  come  out.  I  have  only 
got  seven  teeth.  My  mother  counted 
them  last  night,  and  one  came  out  right 
afterwards.  She  said  she'd  slap  me  if 
any  more  came  out.  I  can't  help  it.  It's 
this  old  Europe.  It's  the  climate  that 


makes  them 
come  out.  In 
America  they 
didn't  come 
out.  It's  these 
hotels." 

Winterbourne  was  much  amused.    "If 
you  eat  three  lumps  of  sugar,  your  moth- 
er will  certainly  slap  you,"  he  said. 
"  She's  got  to  give  me  some  candy, 


then,"  rejoined  his  young  interlocutor. 
"  I  can't  get  any  candy  here — any  Amer- 
ican candy.  American  candy  's  the  best 
candy." 

"  And  are  American  little  boys  the 
best  little  boys?"  asked  Wioterbourne. 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  an  American 
boy,"  said  the  child. 

"  I  see  you  are  one  of  the  best !" 
laughed  Winterbourne. 

"  Are  you  an  American  man  ?"  pur- 
sued this  vivacious  infant.  And  then, 
on  Winterbourne's  affirmative  reply— 
"  American  men  are  the  best !"  he  de- 
clared. 

His  companion  thanked  him  for  the 
compliment ;  and  the  child,  who  had 
now  got  astride  of  his  alpenstock,  stood 
looking  about  him,  while  he  attacked  a 
second  lump  of  sugar.  Winterbourne 
wondered  if  he  himself  had  been  like 
this  in  his  infancy,  for  he  had  been 
brought  to  Europe  at  about  this  age. 

"Here  comes  my  sister!"  cried  the 
child,  in  a  moment.  "She's  an  Ameri- 
can girl." 

Winterbourne  looked  along  the  path 
and  saw  a  beautiful  young  lady  advanc- 
ing.   "  American  girls  are  the  best  girls  !" 
10 


he  said,  cheerfully,  to  his  young  com- 
panion. 

"  My  sister  ain't  the  best !"  the  child 
declared.  "  She's  always  blowing  at  me." 

"  I  imagine  that  is  your  fault,  not 
hers,"  said  Winterbourne.  The  young 
lady  meanwhile  had  drawn  near.  She 
was  dressed  in  white  muslin,  with  a  hun- 
dred frills  and  flounces,  and  knots  of 
pale-colored  ribbon.  She  was  barehead- 
ed ;  but  she  balanced  in  her  hand  a  large 
parasol,  with  a  deep  border  of  embroid- 
ery;  and  she  was  strikingly,  admirably 
pretty.  "  How  pretty  they  are  !"  thought 
Winterbourne,  straightening  himself  in 
his  seat,  as  if  he  were  prepared  to  rise. 

The  young  lady  paused  in  front  of  his 
bench,  near  the  parapet  of  the  garden, 
which  overlooked  the  lake.  The  little 
boy  had  now  converted  his  alpenstock 
into  a  vaulting-pole,  by  the  aid  of  which 
he  was  springing  about  in  the  gravel,  and 
kicking  it  up  a  little. 

"Kandolph,"  said  the  young  lady, 
"  what  are  you  doing  ?" 

"  I'm  going  up  the  Alps,"  replied  Ran- 
dolph. "This  is  the  way!"  And  he 
gave  another  little  jump,  scattering  the 

pebbles  about  Winterbourne's  ears. 
11 


"That's   the  way  they  come  down," 
said  Winterbourne. 

"  He's  an  American  man  !"  cried  Ran- 
dolph, in  his  little  hard  voice. 

The    young   lady    gave    no    heed 
to   this    announcement,    but    looked 
straight  at  her  brother.      "Well,  I 
guess  you  had  better  be  quiet,"  she 
simply  observed. 

It  seemed  to  Winterbourne 
that  he  had  been  in  a  manner 
presented.  He  got  up  and 
^  stepped  slowly  towards,  the 
|f  young  girl,  throwing  away  his 
cigarette.  "  This  little  boy  and 
I  have  made  acquaintance,"  he  said, 
with  great  civility.  In  Geneva,  as 
he  had  been  perfectly  aware,  a  young 
man  was  not  at  liberty  to  speak  to  a 
young  unmarried  lady  except  under  cer- 
tain rarely  occurring  conditions  ;  but  here 
at  Vevay,  what  conditions  could  be  bet- 
ter than  these? — a  pretty  American  girl 
coming  and  standing  in  front  of  you  in 
a  garden.  This  pretty  American  girl, 
however,  on  hearing  Winterbourne's  ob- 
servation, simply  glanc- 
ed at  him  ;  she  then 
turned  her  head  and 


looked  over  the  parapet,  at  the  lake  and 
the  opposite  mountains.  He  wondered 
whether  he  had  gone  too  far  ;  but  he  de- 
cided that  he  must  advance  farther,  rath- 
er than  retreat.  While  he  was  thinking 
of  something  else  to  say,  the  young  lady 
turned  to  the  little  boy  again. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  where  you  got 
that  pole  ?"  she  said. 

"  I  bought  it,"  responded  Randolph. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going 
to  take  it  to  Italy  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  to  take  it  to  Italy," 
the  child  declared. 

The  young  girl  glanced  over  the  front 
of  her  dress,  and  smoothed  out  a  knot  or 
two  of  ribbon.  Then  she  rested  her  eyes 
upon  the  prospect  again.  "  Well,  I  guess 
you  had  better  leave  it  somewhere,"  she 
said,  after  a  moment. 

"  Are  you  going  to  Italy  ?"  Winter- 
bourne  inquired,  in  a  tone  of  great  re- 
spect. 

The  young  lady  glanced  at  him  again. 
"Yes,  sir,"  she  replied.  And  she  said 
nothing  more. 

"Are  you  —  a — going  over  the  Sim- 
plon  ?"  Winterbourne  pursued,  a  little 
embarrassed. 

13 


"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose 
it's  some  mountain.  Randolph,  what 
mountain  are  we  going  over  ?" 

"  Going  where  ?"  the  child  demanded. 

"  To  Italy,"  Winterbourne  explained. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Randolph.  "I 
don't  want  to  go  to  Italy.  I  want  to  go 
to  America." 

"  Oh,  Italy  is  a  beautiful  place !"  re- 
joined the  young  man. 

"  Can  you  get  candy  there  ?"  Randolph 
loudly  inquired. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  his  sister.  "  I  guess 
you  have  had  enough  candy,  and  mother 
thinks  so,  too." 

"  I  haven't  had  any  for  ever  so  long— 
for  a  hundred  weeks !"  cried  the  boy, 
still  jumping  about. 

The  young  lady  inspected  her  flounces 
and  smoothed  her  ribbons  again,  and 
Winterbourne  presently  risked  an  obser- 
vation upon  the  beauty  of  the  view,  lie 
was  ceasing  to  be  embarrassed,  for  he  had 
begun  to  perceive  that  she  was  not  in 
the  least  embarrassed  herself.  There  had 
not  been  the  slightest  alteration  in  her 
charming  complexion  ;  she  was  evidently 
neither  offended  nor  fluttered.  If  she 
looked  another  way  when  he  spoke  to 

14 


her,  and  seemed  not  particularly  to  hear 
him,  this  was  simply  her  habit,  her  man- 
ner. Yet,  as  he  talked  a  little  more,  and 
pointed  out  some  of  the  objects  of  in- 
terest in  the  view,  with  which  she  appear- 
ed quite  unacquainted,  she  gradually  gave 
him  more  of  the  benefit  of  her  glance; 
and  then  he  saw  that  this  glance  was 
perfectly  direct  and  unshrinking.  It 
was  not,  however,  what  would  have  been 
called  an  immodest  glance,  for  the  young 
girl's  eyes  were  singularly  honest  and 
fresh.  They  were  wonderfully  pretty 
eyes ;  and,  indeed,  Winterbourne  had  not 
seen  for  a  long  time  anything  prettier 
than  his  fair  countrywoman's  various 
features — her  complexion,  her  nose,  her 
ears,  her  teeth.  He  had  a  great  relish  for 
feminine  beauty ;  he  was  addicted  to  ob- 
serving and  analyzing  it ;  and  as  regards 
this  young  lady's  face  he  made  several  ob- 
servations. It  was  not  at  all  insipid,  but  it 
was  not  exactly  expressive;  and  though 
it  was  eminently  delicate,  Winterbourne 
mentally  accused  it — very  forgivingly — 
of  a  want  of  finish.  He  thought  it  very 
possible  that  Master  Randolph's  sister  was 
a  coquette ;  he  was  sure  she  had  a  spirit 
of  her  own ;  but  in  her  bright,  sweet, 

15 


superficial  little  visage  there  was  no  mock- 
ery, no  irony.  Before  long  it  became  ob- 
vious that  she  was  much  disposed  towards 
conversation.  She  told  him  that  they 
were  going  to  Rome  for  the  winter — 
she  and  her  mother  and  Ran- 
dolph. She  asked  him  if  he  was 
a  "  real  American  ;"  she  shouldn't 
have  taken  him  for  one  ;  he  seem- 
ed more  like  a  German — this  was 
said  after  a  little  hesitation 
— especially  when 
he  spoke.  Winter- 
bourne,  laughing, 
answered  that  he 
had  met  Ger- 


m  a  n  s     WT  h  o 
but  that  he  had 
remember- 


spoke  like  Americans 
not,  so  far  as  he 
ed,  met  an  Amer-    > 
ican    who   spoke 
like    a    German. 
Then  he  asked  her  if  she 
should  not  be  more  comfort- 
able in  sitting  upon  the  bench  which 
he   had   just  quitted.      She  answered 
that  she  liked  standing  up  and  walk- 
ing about;  but  she  presently  sat  down. 
She  told  him  she  was  from  New  York 


16 


State  —  "  if  you  know  where  that  is." 
Winterbourne  learned  more  about  her 
by  catching  hold  of  her  small,  slippery 
brother,  and  making  him  stand  a  few 
minutes  by  his  side. 

"  Tell  me  your  name,  my  boy,"  he  said. 

"  Kandolph  C.  Miller,"  said  the  boy, 
sharply.  "  And  I'll  tell  you  her  name  ;" 
and  he  levelled  his  alpenstock  at  his  sister. 

"  You  had  better  wait  till  you  are  ask- 
ed !"  said  this  young  lady,  calmly. 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  know 
your  name,"  said  Winterbourne. 

"  Her  name  is  Daisy  Miller !"  cried  the 
child.  "  But  that  isn't  her  real  name ; 
that  isn't  her  name  on  her  cards." 

"It's  a  pity  you  haven't  got  one  of  my 
cards  !"  said  Miss  Miller. 

"  Her  real  name  is  Annie  P.  Miller," 
the  boy  went  on. 

"Ask  him  his  name,"  said  his  sister, 
indicating  Winterbourne. 

But  on  this  point  Randolph  seemed 
perfectly  indifferent ;  he  continued  to  sup- 
ply information  in  regard  to  his  own  fam- 
ily. "My  father's  name  is  Ezra  B.  Mil- 
ler," he  announced.  "  My  father  ain't  in 
Europe  ;  my  father's  in  a  better  place 
than  Europe." 

17 


Winterbourne  imagined  for  a  moment 
that  this  was  the  manner  in  which  the 
child  had  been  taught  to  intimate  that 
Mr.  Miller  had  been  removed  to  the  sphere 
of  celestial  rewards.  But  Randolph  im- 
mediately added,  "  My  father's  in  Sche- 
nectady.  He's  got  a  big  business.  My 
father's  rich,  you  bet !" 

"  Well !"  ejaculated  Miss  Miller,  low- 
ering her  parasol  and  looking  at  the  em- 
broidered border.  Winterbourne  presently 
released  the  child,  who  departed,  dragging 
his  alpenstock  along  the  path.  "  He 
doesn't  like  Europe,"  said  the  young  girl. 
"  Pie  wants  to  go  back." 

"  To  Schenectady,  you  mean  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  he  wants  to  go  right  home. 
He  hasn't  got  any  boys  here.  There  is 
one  boy  here,  but  he  always  goes  round 
with  a  teacher ;  they  won't  let  him  play." 

"And  your  brother  hasn't  any  teacher?" 
Winterbourne  inquired. 

"  Mother  thought  of  getting  him  one 
to  travel  round  with  us.  There  was  a 
lady  told  her  of  a  very  good  teacher ;  an 
American  lady — perhaps  you  know  her — 
Mrs.  Sanders.  I  think  she  came  from 
Boston.  She  told  her  of  this  teacher, 
and  we  thought  of  getting  him  to  travel 

18 


round  with  us.  But  Randolph  said  he 
didn't  want  a  teacher  travelling  round 
with  us.  He  said  he  wouldn't  have  lessons 
when  he  was  in  the  cars.  And  we  are  in 
the  cars  about  half  the  time.  There  was 
an  English  lady  we  met  in  the  cars — I 
think  her  name  was  Miss  Featherstone ; 
perhaps  you  know  her.  She  wanted  to 
know  why  I  didn't  give  Randolph  lessons 
— give  him  'instructions,'  she  called  it.  I 
guess  he  could  give  me  more  instruction 
than  I  could  give  him.  He's  very  smart." 

"Yes,"  said  Winterbourne ;  "he  seems 
very  smart." 

"  Mother's  going  to  get  a  teacher  for 
him  as  soon  as  we  get  to  Italy.  Can  you 
get  good  teachers  in  Italy  ?" 

"  Very  good,  I  should  think,"  said 
Winterbourne. 

"  Or  else  she's  going  to  find  some  school. 
He  ought  to  learn  some  more.  He's  only 
nine.  He's  going  to  college."  And  in 
this  way  Miss  Miller  continued  to  con- 
verse upon  the  affairs  of  her  family,  and 
upon  other  topics.  She  sat  there  with 
her  extremely  pretty  hands,  ornamented 
with  very  brilliant  rings,  folded  in  her 
lap,  and  with  her  pretty  eyes  now  resting 
upon  those  of  Winterbourne,  now  wan- 

19 


dering  over  the  garden,  the  people  who 
passed  by,  and  the  beautiful  view.  She 
talked  to  Winterbourne  as  if  she  had 
known  him  a  long  time.  He  found  it 
very  pleasant.  It  was  many  years  since 
he  had  heard  a  young  girl  talk  so  much. 
It  might  have  been  said  of  this  unknown 
young  lady,  who  had  come  and  sat  down 
beside  him  upon  a  bench,  that  she  chat- 
tered. She  was  very  quiet ;  she  sat  in  a 
charming,  tranquil  attitude,  but  her  lips 
and  her  eyes  were  constantly  moving. 
She  had  a  soft,  slender,  agreeable  voice, 
and  her  tone  was  decidedly  sociable.  She 
gave  Winterbourne  a  history  of  her  move- 
ments and  intentions,  and  those  of  her 
mother  and  brother,  in  Europe,  and  enu- 
merated, in  particular,  the  various  hotels 
at  which  they  had  stopped.  "  That  Eng- 
lish lady  in  the  cars,"  she  said — "  Miss 
Featherstone — asked  me  if  we  didn't  all 
live  in  hotels  in  America.  I  told  her  I 
had  never  been  in  so  many  hotels  in  my 
life  as  since  I  came  to  Europe.  I  have 
never  seen  so  many  —  it's  nothing  but 
hotels."  But  Miss  Miller  did  not  make 
this  remark  with  a  querulous  accent ;  she 
appeared  to  be  in  the  best  humor  with 
everything.  She  declared  that  the  hotels 


were  very  good,  when  once  you  got 
used  to  their  ways,  and  that  Europe 
was  perfectly  sweet.  She  was  not  dis- 
appointed— not  a  bit.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  she  had  heard  so  much  about 
it  before.  She  had  ever  so  many  in-  ' 
timate  friends  that  had  been  there  v 
ever  so  many  times.  And  then  she  had 
had  ever  so  many  dresses  and  things  from 
Paris.  Whenever  she  put  on  a  Paris  dress 
she  felt  as  if  she  were  in  Europe. 

u  It  was  a  kind  of  a  wishing-cap,"  said 
Winterbourne. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Miller,  without  ex- 
amining   this    analogy ;    "  it    always 
made  me  wish  I  was  here.     But  I 
needn't  have  done  that  for  dresses. 
I  am  sure  they  send  all  the  pretty 
ones  to  America;  you  see  the  most 
frightful  things  here.    The  only 
thing  I  don't  like,"  she  proceed- 
ed, "  is  the  society.    There  isn't 
any  society ;  or,  if  there  is,  I  don't 
know  where  it 
keeps  itself.  Do 
you?  I  suppose 
there   is    some 
society  some- 
where, 


but  I  haven't  seen  anything  of  it.  I'm 
very  fond  of  society,  and  I  have  always 
had  a  great  deal  of  it.  I  don't  mean  only 
in  Schenectady,  but  in  New  York.  I  used 
to  go  to  New  York  every  winter.  In 
New  York  I  had  lots  of  society.  Last 
winter  I  had  seventeen  dinners  given 
me;  and  three  of  them  were  by  gentle- 
men," added  Daisy  Miller.  "  I  have  more 
friends  in  New  York  than  in  Schenecta- 
dy— more  gentleman  friends;  and  more 
young  lady  friends,  too,"  she  resumed  in 
a  moment.  She  paused  again  for  an  in- 
stant; she  was  looking  at  Winterbourne 
with  all  her  prettiness  in  her  lively  eyes, 
and  in  her  light,  slightly  monotonous 
smile.  "  I  have  always  had,"  she  said, 
"  a  great  deal  of  gentlemen's  society." 

Poor  Winterbourne  was  amused,  per- 
plexed, and  decidedly  charmed.  He  had 
never  yet  heard  a  young  girl  express  her- 
self in  just  this  fashion — never,  at  least, 
save  in  cases  where  to  say  such  things 
seemed  a  kind  of  demonstrative  evidence 
of  a  certain  laxity  of  deportment.  And 
yet  was  he  to  accuse  Miss  Daisy  Miller 
of  actual  or  potential  incondutie,  as  they 
said  at  Geneva?  He  felt  that  he  had 
lived  at  Geneva  so  long  that  he  had  lost 


a  good  deal;  be  had  become  disbabituated 
to  the  American  tone.  Never,  indeed, 
since  he  had  grown  old  enough  to  appre- 
ciate things  had  be  encountered  a  young 
American  girl  of  so  pronounced  a  type 
as  this.  Certainly  she  was  very  charming, 
but  how  deucedly  sociable  !  Was  she 
simply  a  pretty  girl  from  New  York 
State  ?  were  they  all  like  that,  the  pretty 
girls  who  had  a  good  deal  of  gentlemen's 
society  ?  Or  was  she  also  a  designing,  an 
audacious,  an  unscrupulous  young  person? 
Winterbourne  had  lost  his  instinct  in  this 
matter,  and  his  reason  could  not  help  him. 
Miss  Daisy  Miller  looked  extremely  inno- 
cent. Some  people  had  told  him  that,  after 
all,  American  girls  were  exceedingly  inno- 
cent ;  and  others  had  told  him  that,  after 
all,  they  were  not.  He  was  inclined  to 
think  Miss  Daisy  Miller  was  a  flirt — a 
pretty  American  flirt.  He  had  never,  as 
yet,  had  any  relations  with  young  ladies 
of  this  category.  He  had  known,  here  in 
Europe,  two  or  three  women — persons 
older  than  Miss  Daisy  Miller,  and  pro- 
vided, for  respectability's  sake,  with  hus- 
bands— who  were  great  coquettes — dan- 
gerous, terrible  women,  with  whom  one's 
relations  were  liable  to  take  a  serious  turn. 


But  this  young  girl  was  not  a  coquette  in 
that  sense ;  she  was  very  unsophisticated  ; 
she  was  only  a  pretty  American  flirt. 
Winterbourne  was  almost  grateful  for  hav- 
ing found  the  formula  that  applied  to  Miss 
Daisy  Miller.  He  leaned  back  in  his  seat ; 
he  remarked  to  himself  that  she  had  the 
most  charming  nose  he  had  ever  seen  ;  he 
wondered  what  were  the  regular  con- 
ditions and  limitations  of  one's  intercourse 
with  a  pretty  American  flirt.  It  presently 
became  apparent  that  he  was  on  the  way 
to  learn. 

"Have  you  been  to  that  old  castle?" 
asked  the  young  girl,  pointing  with  her 
parasol  to  the  far-gleaming  walls  of  the 
Chateau  de  Chillon. 

"  Yes,  formerly,  more  than  once,"  said 
Winterbourne.  "You  too,  I  suppose,  have 
seen  it  ?" 

"  No ;  we  haven't  been  there.  I  want 
to  go  there  dreadfully.  Of  course  I  mean 
to  go  there.  I  wouldn't  go  away  from 
here  without  having  seen  that  old  castle." 

"  It's  a  very  pretty  excursion,"  said 
Winterbourne,  "  and  very  easy  to  make. 
You  can  drive  or  go  by  the  little  steamer." 

"You  can  go  in  the  cars,"  said  Miss 
Miller. 


"Yes;  you  can  go  in  the  cars,"  Winter- 
bourne  assented. 

"  Our  courier  says  they  take  you  right 
up  to  the  castle,"  the  young  girl  contin- 
ued. "  We  were  going  last  week ;  but  my 
mother  gave  out.  She  suffers  dreadfully 
from  dyspepsia.  She  said  she  couldn't 
go.  Randolph  wouldn't  go,  either ;  he 
says  he  doesn't  think  much  of  old  castles. 
But  I  guess  we'll  go  this  week,  if  we  can 
get  Randolph." 

"  Your  brother  is 
'-—     not  interested   in    an- 
cient  monuments?" 
Winterbourne  inquired,  smil- 
ing. 

"  He   says   he   don't   care 
much  about  old  castles.     He's  only  nine. 
He  wants  to  stay  at  the  hotel.     Mother's 
afraid  to  leave  him  alone,  and 
•^•^^    the  courier  won't  stay  with 
him  ;  so  we  haven't  been  to 
many  places.      But  it  will 
be  too  bad  if  we  don't  go 
up  there."     And  Miss  Mil- 
ler pointed  again  at  the  Cha- 
teau de  Chillon. 

"I  should  think  it  might 
be  arranged,"  said  Winter- 


bourne.  "  Couldn't  you  get  some  one  to 
stay  for  the  afternoon  with  Randolph  ?" 

Miss  Miller  looked  at  him  a  moment, 
and  then  very  placidly,  "I  wish  you  would 
stay  with  him !"  she  said. 

Winterbourne  hesitated  a  moment.  "  I 
should  much  rather  go  to  Chillon  with 


you" 


"  With  me?"  asked  the  young  girl,  with 
the  same  placidity. 

She  didn't  rise,  blushing,  as  a  young 
girl  at  Geneva  would  have  done;  and  yet 
Winterbourne,  conscious  that  he  had  been 
very  bold,  thought  it  possible  that  she  was 
offended.  "  With  your  mother,"  he  an- 
swered, very  respectfully. 

But  it  seemed  that  both  his  audacity 
and  his  respect  were  lost  upon  Miss  Daisy 
Miller.  "I  guess  my  mother  won't  go, 
after  all,"  she  said.  "  She  don't  like  to 
ride  round  in  the  afternoon.  But  did  you 
really  mean  what  you  said  just  now,  that 
you  would  like  to  go  up  there  ?" 

"Most  earnestly,"  Winterbourne  de- 
clared. 

"  Then  we  may  arrange  it.  If  mother 
will  stay  with  Randolph,  I  guess  Eugenio 
will." 

"  Eugenio  ?"  the  young  man  inquired. 


"Eugenie's  our  courier.  He  doesn't 
like  to  stay  with  Eandolph;  he's  the  most 
fastidious  man  I  ever  saw.  But  he's  a 
splendid  courier.  I  guess  he'll  stay  at 
home  with  Randolph  if  mother  does,  and 
then  we  can  go  to  the  castle." 

Winterbourne  reflected  for  an  instant 
as  lucidly  as  possible — "  we  "  could  only 
mean  Miss  Daisy  Miller  and  himself.  This 
programme  seemed  almost  too  agreeable 
for  credence ;  he  felt  as  if  he  ought  to 
kiss  the  young  lady's  hand.  Possibly  he 
would  have  done  so,  and  quite  spoiled  the 
project ;  but  at  this  moment  another  per- 
son, presumably  Eugenio,  appeared.  A 
tall,  handsome  man,  with  superb  whiskers, 
wearing  a  velvet  morning-coat  and  a  brill- 
iant watch-chain,  approached  Miss  Miller, 
looking  sharply  at  her  companion.  "  Oh, 
Eugenio  !"  said  Miss  Miller,  with  the 
friendliest  accent. 

Eugenio  had  looked  at  Winterbourne 
from  head  to  foot ;  he  now  bowed  gravely 
to  the  young  lady.  "  I  have  the  honor  to 
inform  mademoiselle  that  luncheon  is 
upon  the  table." 

Miss  Miller  slowly  rose.  "  See  here, 
Eugenio !"  she  said  ;  "  I'm  going  to  that 
old  castle,  anyway." 

27 


"  To  the  Chateau  de  Chillon,  madem- 
oiselle?" the  courier  inquired.  "Madem- 
oiselle has  made  arrangements?"  he  add- 
ed, in  a  tone  which  struck  Winterbourne 
as  very  impertinent. 

Eugenio's  tone  apparently  threw,  even 
to  Miss  Miller's  own  apprehension,  a 
slightly  ironical  light  upon  the  young 
girl's  situation.  She  turned  to  Winter- 
bourne,  blushing  a  little — a  very  little. 
"  You  won't  back  out  ?"  she  said. 

"  I  shall  not  be  happy  till  we  go !"  he 
protested. 

"And  you  are  staying  in  this  hotel?" 
she  went  on.  "And  you  are  really  an 
American  ?" 

The  courier  stood  looking  at  Winter- 
bourne  offensively.  The  young  man, 
at  least,  thought  his  manner  of  look- 
ing an  offence  to  Miss  Miller ;  it 
conveyed  an  imputation 
that  she  "picked 


up"  ac- 


quaintances.     "  I  shall 
liave  the  honor  of  presenting  to  you 
a  person  who  will  tell  you  all  about 
me,"  he  said,  smiling,  and 
referring  to  his  aunt. 


"  Oh,  well,  we'll  go  some  day,"  said 
Miss  Miller.  And  she  gave  him  a  smile 
and  turned  away.  She  put  up  her  parasol 
and  walked  back  to  the  inn  beside  Euge- 
nio.  Winterbourne  stood  looking  after 
her ;  and  as  she  moved  away,  drawing 
her  muslin  furbelows  over  the  gravel, 
said  to  himself  that  she  had  the  tournure 
of  a  princess. 

He  had,  however,  engaged  to  do  more 
than  proved  feasible,  in  promising  to  pre- 
sent his  aunt,  Mrs.  Costello,  to  Miss  Daisy 
Miller.  As  soon  as  the  former  lady  had  got 
better  of  her  headache  he  waited  upon 
her  in  her  apartment;  and,  after  the  prop- 
er inquiries  in  regard  to  her  health,  he 
asked  her  if  she  had  observed  in  the  hotel 
an  American  family — a  mamma,  a  daugh- 
ter, and  a  little  boy. 

"  And  a  courier  ?"  said  Mrs.  Costello. 
"  Oh  yes,  I  have  observed  them.  Seen 
them — heard  them — and  kept  out  of  their 
way."  Mrs.  Costello  was  a  widow  with 
a  fortune ;  a  person  of  much  distinction, 
who  frequently  intimated  that,  if  she  were 
not  so  dreadfully  liable  to  sick-headaches, 
she  would  probably  have  left  a  deeper 
impress  upon  her  time.  She  had  a  long, 
pale  face,  a  high  nose,  and  a  great  deal  of 


very  striking  white  hair,  which  she  wore 
in  large  puffs  and  rouleaux  over  the  top 
of  her  head.  She  had  two  sons  married 
in  New  York,  and  another  who  was  now 
in  Europe.  This  young  man  was  amusing 
himself  at  Hombourg ;  and,  though  he  was 
on  his  travels,  was  rarely  perceived  to  visit 
any  particular  city  at  the  moment  selected 
by  his  mother  for  her  own  appearance 
there.  Her  nephew,  who  had  come  up  to 
Yevay  expressly  to  see  her,  was  therefore 
more  attentive  than  those  who,  as  she  said, 
were  nearer  to  her.  He  had  imbibed  at 
Geneva  the  idea  that  one  must  always  be 
attentive  to  one's  aunt.  Mrs.  Costello  had 
not  seen  him  for  many  years,  and  she  was 
greatly  pleased  with  him,  manifesting  her 
approbation  by  initiating  him  into  many 
of  the  secrets  of  that  social  sway  which,  as 
she  gave  him  to  understand,  she  exerted  in 
the  American  capital.  She  admitted  that 
she  was  very  exclusive ;  but,  if  he  were 
acquainted  with  New  York,  he  would  see 
that  one  had  to  be.  And  her  picture  of 
the  minutely  hierarchical  constitution  of 
the  society  of  that  city,  which  she  pre- 
sented to  him  in  many  different  lights, 
was,  to  Winterbourne's  imagination,  al- 
most oppressively  striking. 

30 


He  immediately  perceived,  from  her 
tone,  that  Miss  Daisy  Miller's  place  in 
the  social  scale  was  low.  "  I  am  afraid 
you  don't  approve  of  them,"  he  said. 

"  They  are  very  common,"  Mrs.  Cos- 
tello  declared.  "  They  are  the  sort  of 
Americans  that  one  does  one's  duty  by 
not — not  accepting." 

"Ah,  you  don't  accept  them?"  said 
the  young  man. 

"  I  can't,  my  dear  Frederick.  I  would 
if  I  could,  but  I  can't." 

"  The  young  girl  is  very  pretty,"  said 
Winterbourne,  in  a  moment. 

"  Of  course  she's  pretty.     But  she 
is  very  common." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean,  of  course," 
said  Winterbourne,  after  another  pause. 

"  She  has  that  charming  look  that 
they  all  have,"  his  aunt  resumed. 
"I  can't  think  where  they  pick 
it  up;   and   she  dresses  in 
perfection — no,  you  don't 
know    how  well  she 
dresses.     I  can't 
think    where 
they  get  their 
taste." 

"But,  my 


dear  aunt,  she  is  not,  after  all,  a  Co- 
manche  savage." 

"  She  is  a  young  lady,"  said  Mrs.  Cos- 
tello,  "  who  has  an  intimacy  with  her 
mamma's  courier." 

"An  intimacy  with  the  courier?"  the 
young  man  demanded. 

"  Oh,  the  mother  is  just  as  bad  !  They 
treat  the  courier  like  a  familiar  friend 
—like  a  gentleman.  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  he  dines  with  them.  Very  likely  they 
have  never  seen  a  man  with  such  good 
manners,  such  fine  clothes,  so  like  a  gen- 
tleman. He  probably  corresponds  to  the 
young  lady's  idea  of  a  count.  He  sits 
with  them  in  the  garden  in  the  evening. 
I  think  he  smokes." 

Winterbourne  listened  with  interest  to 
these  disclosures ;  they  helped  him  to 
make  up  his  mind  about  Miss  Daisy. 
Evidently  she  was  rather  wild. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  a  cou- 
rier, and  yet  she  was  very  charming  to 
me." 

"  You  had  better  have  said  at  first," 
said  Mrs.  Costello,  with  dignity,  "that 
you  had  made  her  acquaintance." 

"  We  simply  met  in  the  garden,  and  we 
talked  a  bit." 


"Tout  bonnement!  And  pray  what 
did  you  say  ?" 

"  I  said  I  should  take  the  liberty  of  in- 
troducing her  to  my  admirable  aunt." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you." 

"It  was  to  guarantee  my  respectabil- 
ity," said  Winterbourne. 

"  And  pray  who  is  to  guarantee  hers?" 

"Ah,  you  are  cruel,"  said  the  young 
man.  "  She's  a  very  nice  young  girl." 

"  You  don't  say  that  as  if  you  believed 
it,"  Mrs.  Costello  observed. 

"  She  is  completely  uncultivated,"  Win- 
terbourne went  on.  "But  she  is  won- 
derfully pretty,  and,  in  short,  she  is  very 
nice.  To  prove  that  I  believe  it,  I  am 
going  to  take  her  to  the  Chateau  de  Chil- 
lon." 

"  You  two  are  going  off  there  togeth- 
er ?  I  should  say  it  proved  just  the  con- 
trary. How  long  had  you  known  her, 
may  I  ask,  when  this  interesting  project 
was  formed  ?  You  haven't  been  twenty- 
four  hours  in  the  house." 

"  I  had  known  her  half  an  hour !"  said 
Winterbourne,  smiling. 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Mrs.  Costello. 
"  What  a  dreadful  girl !" 

Her  nephew  was  silent  for  some  mo- 


N 


ments.  "  Yon  really  think,  then,"  he  be- 
gan, earnestly,  and  with  a  desire  for  trust- 
worthy information  —  "  you  really  think 
that —  But  he  paused  again. 

"  Think  what,  sir  ?"  said  his  aunt. 

"  That  she  is  the  sort  of  young  lady 
who  expects  a  man,  sooner  or  later,  to 
carry  her  off?" 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  such 
young  ladies  expect  a  man  to  do.  But  I 
really  think  that  you  had  better  not  med- 
dle with  little  American  girls  that  are 
uncultivated,  as  you  call  them.  You 
have  lived  too  long  out  of  the  country. 
You  will  be  sure  to  make  some  great  mis- 
take. You  are  too  innocent." 

"  My  dear  aunt,  I  am  not  so  innocent," 
said  Winterbourne,  smiling  and  curling 
his  mustache. 

"  You  are  too  guilty,  then  !" 

Winterbourne  continued  to  curl  his 
mustache,  meditatively.  "  You  won't  let 
the  poor  girl  know  you,  then  ?"  he  asked 
at  last. 

"  Is  it  literally  true  that  she  is  going  to 
the  Chateau  de  Chillon  with  you  ?" 

"  I  think  that  she  fully  intends  it." 

"  Then,  my  dear  Frederick,"  said  Mrs. 
Costello,  "  I  must  decline  the  honor  of 

34 


her  acquaintance.  I  am  an  old  woman, 
but  I  am  not  too  old,  thank  Heaven,  to 
be  shocked !" 

"  But  don't  they  all  do  these  things— 
the  young  girls  in  America?"  Winter- 
bourne  inquired. 

Mrs.  Costello  stared  a  moment.  "  I 
should  like  to  see  my  granddaughters  do 
them  !"  she  declared,  grimly. 

This  seemed  to  throw  some  light  upon 
the  matter,  for  Winterbourne  remember- 
ed to  have  heard  that  his  pretty  cousins 
in  New  York  were  "  tremendous  flirts." 
If,  therefore,  Miss  Daisy  Miller  exceeded 
the  liberal  margin  allowed  to  these  young 
ladies,  it  was  probable  that  anything  might 
be  expected  of  her.  Winterbourne  was 
impatient  to  see  her  again,  and  he  was 
vexed  with  himself  that,  by  instinct,  he 
should  not  appreciate  her  justly. 

Though  he  was  impatient  to  see  her, 
he  hardly  knew  what  he  should  say  to 
her  about  his  aunt's  refusal  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  her;  but  he  discovered, 
promptly  enough,  that  with  Miss  Daisy 
Miller  there  was  no  great  need  of  walk- 
ing on  tiptoe.  He  found  her  that  even- 
ing in  the  garden,  wandering  about  in  the 
warm  starlight  like  an  indolent  sylph, 

35 


w 


and  swinging  to  and  fro  the  largest  fan 
he  had  ever  beheld.  It  was  ten  o'clock. 
He  had  dined  with  his  aunt,  had  been 
sitting  with  her  since  dinner,  and  had 
just  taken  leave  of  her  till  the  morrow. 
Miss  Daisy  Miller  seemed  very  glad  to 
see  him ;  she  declared  it  was  the  longest 
evening  she  had  ever  passed. 

"  Have  you  been  all  alone  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  have  been  walking  round  with 
mother.  But  mother  gets  tired  walking 
round,"  she  answered. 

"  Has  she  gone  to  bed  ?" 

"  No ;  she  doesn't  like  to  go  to  bed," 
said  the  young  girl.  "  She  doesn't  sleep 
— not  three  hours.  She  says  she  doesn't 

know  how  she  lives.     She's  dreadful- 

ly  nervous.  I  guess  she  sleeps  more 
than  she  thinks.  She's  gone  some- 
where after  Randolph  ;  she  wants  to 
try  to  get  him  to  go  to  bed.  He  doesn't 
like  to  go  to  bed." 

"  Let  us  hope  she  will  persuade  him," 
observed  Winterbourne. 

"  She  will  talk  to  him  all  she  can  ;  but 


he  doesn't  like  her  to  talk  to  him,"  said 
Miss  Daisy,  opening  her  fan.  "  She's 
going  to  try  to  get  Eugenio  to  talk  to 
him.  But  he  isn't  afraid  of  Eugenio. 
Engenio's  a  splendid  courier,  but  he  can't 
make  much  impression  on  Randolph  !  I 
don't  believe  he'll  go  to  bed  before  elev- 
en." It  appeared  that  Randolph's  vigil 
was  in  fact  triumphantly  prolonged,  for 
Winterbourne  strolled  about  with  the 
young  girl  for  some  time  without  meet- 
ing her  mother.  "I  have  been  look- 
ing round  for  that  lady  you  want  to 
introduce  me  to,"  his  companion  re- 
sumed. "  She's  your  aunt."  Then,  on 
Winterbourne's  admitting  the  fact,  and 
expressing  some  curiosity  as  to  how  she 
had  learned  it,  she  said  she  had  heard  all 
about  Mrs.  Costello  from  the  chamber- 
maid. She  was  very  quiet,  and  very 
comme  il  faut ;  she  wore  white  puffs; 
she  spoke  to  no  one,  and  she  never  dined 
at  the  table  d'hote.  Every  two  days  she 
had  a  headache.  "  I  think  that's  a  lovely 
description,  headache  and  all !"  said  Miss 
Daisy,  chattering  along  in  her  thin,  gay 
voice.  "  I  want  to  know  her  ever  so 
much.  I  know  just  what  your  aunt 
would  be  ;  I  know  I  should  like  her.  She 

37 


would  be  very  exclusive.  I  like  a  lady 
to  be  exclusive ;  I'm  dying  to  be  ex- 
clusive myself.  Well,  we  are  exclusive, 
mother  and  I.  We  don't  speak  to  every 
one — or  they  don't  speak  to  us.  I  sup- 
pose it's  about  the  same  thing.  Anyway, 
I  shall  be  ever  so  glad  to  know  your 
aunt." 

Winterbourne  was  embarrassed.  "  She 
would  be  most  happy,"  he  said  ;  "  but  I 
am  afraid  those  headaches  will  interfere." 

The  young  girl  looked  at  him  through 
the  dusk.  "But  I  suppose  she  doesn't 
have  a  headache  every  day,"  she  said, 
sympathetically. 

Winterbourne  was  silent  a  moment. 
"  She  tells  me  she  does,"  he  answered  at 
last,  not  knowing  what  to  say. 

Miss  Daisy  Miller  stopped,  and  stood 
looking  at  him.  Her  prettiness  was  still 
visible  in  the  darkness ;  she  was  opening 
and  closing  her  enormous  fan.  "  She 
doesn't  want  to  know  me!"  she  said, 
suddenly.  "  Why  don't  you  say  so  ?  You 
needn't  be  afraid.  I'm  not  afraid !"  And 
she  gave  a  little  laugh. 

Winterbourne  fancied  there  was  a  tre- 
mor in  her  voice ;  he  was  touched,  shock- 
ed, mortified  by  it.  "  My  dear  young 


lady,"  he  protested,  "she  knows  no  one. 
It's  her  wretched  health." 

The  young  girl  walked  on  a  few  steps, 
laughing  still.  "  You  needn't  be  afraid," 
she  repeated.  "  Why  should  she  want  to 
know  me  ?"  Then  she  paused  again  ; 
she  was  close  to  the  parapet  of  the  gar- 
den, and  in  front  of  her  was  the  starlit 
lake.  There  was  a  vague  sheen  upon  its 
surface,  and  in  the  distance  were  dimly- 
seen  mountain  forms.  Daisy  Miller  look- 
ed out  upon  the  mysterious  prospect,  and 
then  she  gave  another  little  laugh.  "  Gra- 
cious !  she  is  exclusive  !"  she  said.  Win- 
terbourne  wondered  whether  she  was 
seriously  wounded,  and  for  a  moment  al- 
most wished  that  her  sense  of  injury 
might  be  such  as  to  make  it  becoming  in 
him  to  attempt  to  reassure  and  comfort 
her.  He  had  a  pleasant  sense  that  she 
would  be  very  approachable  for  con- 
solatory purposes.  He  felt  then,  for  the 
instant,  quite  ready  to  sacrifice  his  aunt, 
conversationally ;  to  admit  that  she  was  a 
proud,  rude  woman,  and  to  declare  that 
they  needn't  mind  her.  But  before  he 
had  time  to  commit  himself  to  this  peril- 
ous mixture  of  gallantry  and  impiety,  the 
young  lady,  resuming  her  walk,  gave 


an  exclamation  in  quite  another  tone. 
"  Well,  here's  mother !  I  guess  she  hasn't 
got  Randolph  to  go  to  bed."  The  figure 
of  a  lady  appeared,  at  a  distance,  very  in- 
distinct in  the  darkness,  and  advancing 
with  a  slow  and  wavering  movement. 
Suddenly  it  seemed  to  pause. 

"Are  you  sure  it  is  your  mother?  Can 
you  distinguish  her  in  this  thick  dusk?" 
Winterbourne  asked. 

"Well!"  cried  Miss  Daisy  Miller,  with 
a  laugh ;  "  I  guess  I  know  my  own 
mother.  And  when  she  has  got  on  my 
shawl,  too !  She  is  always  wearing  my 
things." 

The  lady  in  question,  ceasing  to  ad- 
vance, hovered  vaguely  about  the  spot  at 
which  she  had  checked  her  steps. 

"  I  am  afraid  your  mother  doesn't  see 
you,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  Or  perhaps," 
he  added,  thinking,  with  Miss  Miller,  the 
joke  permissible  —  "perhaps  she  feels 
guilty  about  your  shawl." 

"Oh,  it's  a  fearful  old  thing!"  the 
young  girl  replied,  serenely.  "  I  told  her 
she  could  wear  it.  She  won't  come  here, 
because  she  sees  you." 

"  Ah,  then,"  said  Winterbourne,  "  I 
had  better  leave  you." 


"  Oh  no ;  come  on !"  urged  Miss 
Daisy  Miller. 

"  I'm  afraid  your  mother  doesn't 
approve  of  my  walking  with  you." 

Miss  Miller  gave  him  a  serious 

glance.     "  It  isn't  for  me ;  it's 
for  you  —  that  is,  it's  for  her. 
Well,  I   don't  know  who   it's 
for  !     But  mother  doesn't 
like  any  of  my  gentlemen 
friends.   She's  right  down 
timid.    She  always  makes 
a  fuss  if  I  introduce  a  gen- 
tleman. Bat  I  <&>  introduce 
them — almost  always.   If 
I  didn't  introduce  my 
gentlemen  friends  to  mother,"  the 
young  girl  added,  in  her  little 
soft,  flat  monotone,  "  I  shouldn't 
think  it  was  natural." 

"To  introduce  me,"  said  Win- 
terbourne,  "you  must  know  my 


name."  And  he  proceeded  to  pronounce 
it  to  her. 

"Oh  dear,  I  can't  say  all  that!"  said 
his  companion,  with  a  laugh.  But  by 
this  time  they  had  come  up  to  Mrs.  Mil- 
ler, who,  as  they  drew  near,  walked  to 
the  parapet  of  the  garden  and  leaned 
upon  it,  looking  intently  at  the  lake,  and 
turning  her  back  to  them.  "  Mother  !" 
said  the  young  girl,  in  a  tone  of  decision. 
Upon  this  the  elder  lady  turned  round. 
"  Mr.  Winterbourne,"  said  Miss  Daisy 
Miller,  introducing  the  young  man  very 
frankly  and  prettily.  "  Common,"  she 
was,  as  Mrs.  Costello  had  pronounced  her; 
yet  it  was  a  wonder  to  Winterbourne 
that,  with  her  commonness,  she  had  a  sin- 
gularly delicate  grace. 

Her  mother  was  a  small,  spare,  light 
person,  with  a  wandering  eye,  a  very 
exiguous  nose,  and  a  large  forehead,  dec- 
orated with  a  certain  amount  of  thin, 
rnuch-frizzled  hair.  Like  her  daughter, 
Mrs.  Miller  was  dressed  with  extreme 
elegance  ;  she  had  enormous  diamonds  in 
her  ears.  So  far  as  Winterbourne  could 
observe,  she  gave  him  no  greeting — she 
certainly  was  not  looking  at  him.  Daisy 
was  near  her,  pulling  her  shawl  straight. 


42 


"What  are  you  doing,  poking  round 
here  ?"  this  young  lady  inquired,  but  by 
no  means  with  that  harshness  of  accent 
which  her  choice  of  words  may  imply. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  her  mother,  turn- 
ing towards  the  lake  again. 

"  I  shouldn't  think  you'd  want  that 
shawl !"  Daisy  exclaimed. 

"  "Well,  I  do !"  her  mother  answered, 
with  a  little  laugh. 

"  Did  you  get  Randolph  to  go  to  bed  ?" 
asked  the  young  girl. 

"  No ;  I  couldn't  induce  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Miller,  very  gently.  "  He  wants  to 
talk  to  the  waiter.  He  likes  to  talk  to 
that  waiter." 

"I  was  telling  Mr.  Winterbourne,"  the 
young  girl  went  on ;  and  to  the  young 
man's  ear  her  tone  might  have  indicated 
that  she  had  been  uttering  his  name  all 
her  life. 

"Oh  yes!"  said  Winterbourne;  "I 
have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  your  son." 

Randolph's  mamma  was  silent ;  she 
turned  her  attention  to  the  lake.  But  at 
last  she  spoke.  "  Well,  I  don't  see  how 
he  lives !'' 

"Anyhow,  it  isn't  so  bad  as  it  was  at 
Dover,"  said  Daisy  Miller. 


"And  what  occurred  at  Dover?"  Win- 
terbourne  asked. 

"  He  wouldn't  go  to  bed  at  all.  I  guess 
he  sat  up  all  night  in  the  public  parlor. 
He  wasn't  in  bed  at  twelve  o'clock  ;  I 
know  that." 

"  It  was  half-past  twelve,"  declared 
Mrs.  Miller,  with  mild  emphasis. 

"Does  he  sleep  much  during  the  day?" 
Winterbourne  demanded. 

"  I  guess  he  doesn't  sleep  much,"  Daisy 
rejoined. 

"  I  wish  he  would !"  said  her  mother. 
"  It  seems  as  if  he  couldn't." 

"  I  think  he's  real  tiresome,"  Daisy 
pursued. 

Then  for  some  moments  there  was 
silence.  "  Well,  Daisy  Miller,"  said  the 
elder  lady,  presently,  "I  shouldn't  think 
you'd  want  to  talk  against  your  own 
brother !" 

"  Well,  he  is  tiresome,  mother,"  said 
Daisy,  quite  without  the  asperity  of  a 
retort. 

"  He's  only  nine,"  urged  Mrs.  Miller. 

"  Well,  he  wouldn't  go  to  that  castle," 
said  the  young  girl.  "  I'm  going  there 
with  Mr.  Winter  bourne." 

To  this   announcement,  very  placidly 


mamma 

offered  no  response.  Winter- 
bourne  took  for  granted  that  she 
deeply  disapproved  of  the  pro- 
jected excursion  ;  but  he  said  to 
himself  that  she  was  a  simple, 
easily -managed  person,  and  that  a 
few  deferential  protestations  would 
take  the  edge  from  her  displeasure. 
"  Yes,"  he  began  ;  "  your  daughter 
has  kindly  allowed  me  the  honor  of 
being  her  guide." 

Mrs.  Miller's       , 
wandering    eyes 
attached  them- 


selves,  with  a  sort  of  appealing  air,  to 
Daisy,  who,  however,  strolled  a  few  steps 
farther,  gently  humming  to  herself.  "  1 
presume  you  will  go  in  the  cars,"  said  her 
mother. 

"  Yes,  or  in  the  boat,"  said  Winter- 
bourne. 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  don't  know,"  Mrs. 
Miller  rejoined.  "I  have  never  been  to 
that  castle." 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  shouldn't  go,"  said 
Winterbourne,  beginning  to  feel  reassur- 
ed as  to  her  opposition.  And  yet  he  was 
quite  prepared  to  find  that,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  she  meant  to  accompany  her 
daughter. 

"We've  been  thinking  ever  so  much 
about  going,"  she  pursued ;  "  but  it  seems 
as  if  we  couldn't.  Of  course  Daisy,  she 
wants  to  go  round.  But  there's  a  lady 
here — I  don't  know  her  name — she  says 
she  shouldn't  think  we'd  want  to  go  to 
see  castles  here;  she  should  think  we'd 
want  to  wait  till  we  got  to  Italy.  It 
seems  as  if  there  would  be  so  many  there," 
continued  Mrs.  Miller,  with  an  air  of  in- 
creasing confidence.  "  Of  course  we  only 
want  to  see  the  principal  ones.  We  visited 
several  in  England,"  she  presently  added. 


"  All,  yes  !  in  England  there  are  beau- 
tiful castles,"  said  Winterbourne.  "But 
Cliillon,  here,  is  very  well  worth  seeing." 

"  Well,  if  Daisy  feels  up  to  it—"  said 
Mrs.  Miller,  in  a  tone  impregnated  with 
a  sense  of  the  magnitude  of  the  enter- 
prise. "  It  seems  as  if  there  was  nothing 
she  wouldn't  undertake." 

"  Oh,  I  think  she'll  enjoy  it !"  Winter- 
bourne  declared.  And  he  desired  more 
and  more  to  make  it  a  certainty  that  he 
was  to  have  the  privilege  of  a  tete-a-tete 
with  the  young  lady,  who  was  still  stroll- 
ing along  in  front  of  them,  softly  vocaliz- 
ing. "  You  are  not  disposed,  madam,"  he 
inquired,  "  to  undertake  it  yourself  ?" 

Daisy's  mother  looked  at  him  an  instant 
askance,  and  then  walked  forward  in  si- 
lence. Then — "  I  guess  she  had  better  go 
alone,"  she  said,  simply.  Winterbourne 
observed  to  himself  that  this  was  a  very 
different  type  of  maternity  from  that  of 
the  vigilant  matrons  who  massed  them- 
selves in  the  fore -front  of  social  inter- 
course in  the  dark  old  city  at  the  other 
end  of  the  lake.  But  his  meditations 
were  interrupted  by  hearing  his  name 
very  distinctly  pronounced  by  Mrs.  Mil- 
ler's unprotected  daughter. 

47 


"Mr.  Winterbonrne!"  murmured  Daisy. 
"  Mademoiselle  !"  said  the  young  man. 
"  Don't  you  want  to  take  me  out  in  a 
boat?" 

"  At  present !"  he  asked. 
"  Of  course  !"  said  Daisy. 
"  Well,  Annie  Miller !"  exclaimed  her 
mother. 

"  I  beg  you,  madam,  to  let  her  go," 
said  Winterbourne,  ardently ;  for  he  had 
never  yet  enjoyed  the  sensation  of  guid- 
ing through  the  summer  starlight  a 
skiff   freighted  with   a   fresh    and 
beautiful  young  girl. 

"  I  shouldn't 
think   she'd 
want     to," 
said     her 
mother.    "  I 
should  think 
she'd  rath- 
er go  in- 
doors." 


"I'm  sure  Mr.  Winterbourne  wants  to 
take  me,"  Daisy  declared.  "  He's  so  aw- 
fully devoted !" 

"  I  will  row  you  over  to  Chillon  in  the 
starlight." 

"  I  don't  believe  it !"  said  Daisy. 

"Well !"  ejaculated  the  elder  lady  again. 

"  You  haven't  spoken  to  me  for  half  an 
hour,"  her  daughter  went  on. 

"  I  have  been  having  some  very  pleas- 
ant conversation  with  your  mother,"  said 
Winterbourne. 

"  Well,  I  want  you  to  take  me  out  in 
a  boat !"  Daisy  repeated.  They  had  all 
stopped,  and  she  had  turned  round  and 
was  looking  at  Winterbourne.  Her  face 
wore  a  charming  smile,  her  pretty  eyes 
were  gleaming,  she  was  swinging  her 
great  fan  about.  No ;  it's  impossible  to 
be  prettier  than  that,  thought  Winter- 
bourne. 

"  There  are  half  a  dozen  boats  moored 
at  that  landing-place,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
certain  steps  which  descended  from  the 
garden  to  the  lake.  "  If  you  will  do  me 
the  honor  to  accept  my  arm,  we  will  go 
and  select  one  of  them." 

Daisy  stood  there  smiling;  she  threw 
back  her  head  and  gave  a  little  light 


laugh.  "I  like  a  gentleman  to  be  formal!" 
she  declared. 

"  I  assure  you  it's  a  formal  offer." 

"  I  was  bound  I  would  make  you  say 
something,"  Daisy  went  on. 

"  You  see,  it's  not  very  difficult,"  said 
"Winterbourne.  "But  I  am  afraid  you 
are  chaffing  me." 

"  I  think  not,  sir,"  remarked  Mrs.  Mil- 
ler, very  gently. 

"  Do,  then,  let  me  give  you  a  row,"  he 
said  to  the  young  girl. 

"  It's  quite  lovely,  the  way  you  say 
that !"  cried  Daisy. 

"It  will  be  still  more  lovely  to  do  it." 

"  Yes,  it  would  be  lovely  !"  said  Daisy. 
But  she  made  no  movement  to  accom- 
pany him ;  she  only  stood  there  laugh- 
ing. 

"  I  should  think  you  had  better  find  out 
what  time  it  is,"  interposed  her  mother. 

"  It  is  eleven  o'clock,  madam,"  said  a 
voice,  with  a  foreign  accent,  out  of  the 
neighboring  darkness ;  and  Winterbourne, 
turning,  perceived  the  florid  personage 
who  was  in  attendance  upon  the  two  la- 
dies. He  had  apparently  just  approached. 

"  Oh,  Eugenio,"  said  Daisy,  "  I  am  go- 
ing out  in  a  boat !" 

50 


Eugenio  bowed.  "  At  eleven  o'clock, 
mademoiselle  ?" 

"  I  am  going  with  Mr.  Winterbourne — 
this  very  minute." 

"  Do  tell  her  she  can't,"  said  Mrs.  Mil- 
ler to  the  courier. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  not  go  out  in 
a  boat,  mademoiselle,"  Eugenio  declared. 

Winterbourne  wished  to  Heaven  this 
pretty  girl  were  not  so  familiar  with  her 
courier ;  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  think  it's  proper!" 
Daisy  exclaimed.  "  Eugenio  doesn't  think 
anything's  proper." 

"  I  am  at  your  service,"  said  Winter- 
bourne. 

"  Does  mademoiselle  propose  to  go 
alone  ?"  asked  Eugenio  of  Mrs.  Miller. 

"  Oh,  no ;  with  this  gentleman  !"  an- 
swered Daisy's  mamma. 

The  courier  looked  for  a  moment  at 
Winterbourne — the  latter  thought  he  was 
smiling — and  then,  solemnly,  with  a  bow, 
"  As  mademoiselle  pleases  !"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  I  hoped  you  would  make  a  fuss !" 
said  Daisy.  "  I  don't  care  to  go  now. 

"  I  myself  shall  make  a  fuss  if  you  don't 
go,"  said  Winter-      ,      bourne. 
That's    all   I    <&,  want- 


^  >'-"/: 


•     * 


fuss !"  And  the  young  girl  began  to  laugh 
again. 

"  Mr.  Randolph  has  gone  to  bed !"  the 
courier  announced,  frigidly. 

"  Oh,  Daisy ;  now  we  can  go  !"  said 
Mrs.  Miller. 

Daisy  turned  away  from  Winterbourne, 
looking  at  him,  smiling,  and  fanning  her- 
self. "  Good-night,"  she  said  ;  "  I  hope 
you  are  disappointed,  or  disgusted,  or 
something !" 

He  looked  at  her,  taking  the  hand  she 
offered  him.  "I  am  puzzled,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"Well,  I  hope  it  won't  keep  you 
awake !"  she  said,  very  smartly ;  and, 
under  the  escort  of  the  privileged  Eu- 
genio,  the  two  ladies  passed  towards  the 
house. 

Winterbourne  stood  looking  after  them ; 
he  was  indeed  puzzled.  He  lingered  be- 
side the  lake  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
turning  over  the  mystery  of  the  young 
girl's  sudden  familiarities  and  caprices. 
But  the  only  very  definite  conclusion  he 
came  to  was  that  he  should  enjoy  deuced- 
ly  "  going  off  "  with  her  somewhere. 

Two  days  afterwards  he  went  off  with 
her  to  the  Castle  of  Chillon.  He  waited 


for  her  in  the  large  hall  of  the  hotel, 
where  the  couriers,  the  servants,  the  for- 
eign tourists,  were  lounging  about  and 
staring.  It  was  not  the  place  he  should 
have  chosen,  but  she  had  appointed  it. 
She  came  tripping  down-stairs,  buttoning 
her  long  gloves,  squeezing  her  folded 
parasol  against  her  pretty  figure,  dressed 
in  the  perfection  of  a  soberly  elegant  trav- 
elling costume.  Winterbourne  was  a  man 
of  imagination  and,  as  our  ancestors  used 
to  say,  sensibility ;  as  he  looked  at  her 
dress  and —  on  the  great  staircase — her 
little  rapid,  confiding  step,  he  felt  as  if 
there  were  something  romantic  going  for- 
ward. He  could  have  believed  he  was 
going  to  elope  with  her.  He  passed  out 
with  her  among  all  the  idle  people  that 
were  assembled  there  ;  they  were  all  look- 
ing at  her  very  hard  ;  she  had  begun  to 
chatter  as  soon  as  she  joined  him. 
Winterbourne's  prefer- 
ence had  been  that  they 
should  be  conveyed  to 
Chillon  in  a  carriage ; 
but  she  expressed  a 
lively  wish  to  go  in 
the  little  steam- 
er; she  de- 


dared  that  she  had  a  passion  for  steam- 
boats. There  was  always  such  a  lovely 
breeze  upon  the  water,  and  you  saw  such 
lots  of  people.  The  sail  was  not  long,  but 
Winterbourne's  companion  found  time  to 
say  a  great  many  things.  To  the  young 
man  himself  their  little  excursion  was  so 
much  of  an  escapade  —  an  adventure  — 
that,  even  allowing  for  her  habitual  sense 
of  freedom,  he  had  some  expectation  of 
seeing  her  regard  it  in  the  same  way. 
But  it  must  be  confessed  that,  in  this  par- 
ticular, he  was  disappointed.  Daisy 
Miller  was  extremely  animated,  she 
was  in  charming  spirits;  but  she 
was  apparently  not  at  all  excited ; 
she  was  not  fluttered  ;  she  avoided 
neither  his  eyes  nor  those  of  any- 
one else  ;  she  blushed  neither  when 
she  looked  at  him  nor  when  she  felt 
that  people  were  looking  at  her. 
People  continued  to  look  at  her  a 
great  deal,  and  Winterbourne  took 
much  satisfaction  in  his  pretty  com- 
panion's distinguished  air.  He  had 
been  a  little  afraid  that  she  would 
talk  loud,  laugh  overmuch,  and 
even,  perhaps,  desire  to  move  about 
the  boat  a  good  deal.  But  he  quite 


forgot  liis  fears ;  lie  sat  smiling,  with  his 
eyes  upon  her  face,  while,  without  mov- 
ing from  her  place,  she  delivered  herself 
of  a  great  number  of  original  reflections. 
It  was  the  most  charming  garrulity  he 
had  ever  heard.  He  had  assented  to  the 
idea  that  she  was  "  common  ;"  but  was 
she  so,  after  all,  or  was  he  simply  getting 
used  to  her  commonness?  Her  conver- 
sation was  chiefly  of  what  metaphysicians 
term  the  objective  cast;  but  every  now 
and  then  it  took  a  subjective  turn. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  so  grave 
about?"  she  suddenly  demanded,  fixing 
her  agreeable  eyes  upon  Winterbourne's. 

"  Am  I  grave?"  he  asked.  "  I  had  an 
idea  I  was  grinning  from  ear  to  ear." 

"  You  look  as  if  you  were  taking  me 
to  a  funeral.  If  that's  a  grin,  your  ears 
are  very  near  together." 

"  Should  you  like  me  to  dance  a  horn- 
pipe on  the  deck  ?" 

"Pray  do,  and  I'll  carry  round  your 
hat.  It  will  pay  the  expenses  of  our 
journey." 

"  I  never  was  better  pleased  in  my 
life,"  murmured  Winterbourne. 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment,  and  then 
burst  into  a  little  laugh.  "  I  like  to  make 

65 


you  say  those  things  !     You're  a  queer 
mixture !" 

In  the  castle,  after  they  had  landed,  the 
subjective  element  decidedly  prevailed. 
Daisy  tripped  about  the  vaulted  cham- 
bers, rustled  her  skirts  in  the  corkscrew 
staircases,  flirted  back  with  a  pretty  little 
cry  and  a  shudder  from  the  edge  of  the 
oubliettes,  and  turned  a  singularly  well- 
shaped  ear  to  everything  that  Winter- 
bourne  told  her  about  the  place.  But  he 
saw  that  she  cared  very  little  for  feudal 
antiquities,  and  that  the  dusky  traditions 
of  Chillon  made  but  a  slight  impression 
upon  her.  They  had  the  good-fortune  to 
have  been  able  to  walk  about  without 
other  companionship  than  that  of  the 
custodian  ;  and  Winterbourne  arranged 
with  this  functionary  that  they  should 
not  be  hurried — that  they  should  linger 
and  pause  wherever  they  chose.  The 
custodian  interpreted  the  bargain  gener- 
ously— Winterbourne,  on  his  side,  had 
been  generous  —  and  ended  by  leaving 
them  quite  to  themselves.  Miss  Miller's 
observations  were  not  remarkable  for  log- 
ical consistency;  for  anything  she  wanted 
to  say  she  was  sure  to  find  a  pretext. 
She  found  a  great  many  pretexts  in  the 


r.c 


rugged  embrasures  of  Chillon  for  asking 
Winterbourne  sudden  questions  about  him- 
self— his  family,  his  previous  history,  his 
tastes,  his  habits,  his  intentions — and  for 
supplying  information  upon  correspond- 
ing points  in  her  own  personality.  Of 
her  own  tastes,  habits,  and  intentions  Miss 
Miller  was  prepared  to  give  the  most  def- 
inite, and,  indeed,  the  most  favorable  ac- 
count. 

"Well,  I  hope  you  know  enough  !"  she 
said  to  her  companion,  after  he  had  told 
her  the  history  of  the  unhappy  Bonnivard. 
"  I  never  saw  a  man  that  knew  so  much !" 
The  history  of  Bonnivard  had  evidently, 
as  they  say,  gone  into  one  ear  and  out 
of  the  other.    But  Daisy  went  on  to 
say  that  she  wished  Winterbourne 
would  travel  with  them,  and  "go 
round  "  with  them ;  they  might  know 
something,  in  that  case.  "  Don't  you 
want  to  come  and  teach  Randolph  ?" 
she  asked.  Winterbourne  said  that 
nothing    could    possibly 
please  him  so  much,  but 
that  he  had  unfortunately 
other  occupations.  "  Other 
occupations?     I  don't  be- 
lieve it !"  said  Miss  Daisy. 


"What  do  you  mean?  You  are  not  in 
business."  The  young  man  admitted  that 
he  was  not  in  business;  but  he  had  en- 
gagements which,  even  within  a  day  or 
two,  would  force  him  to  go  back  to  Gene- 
va. "  Oh,  bother !"  she  said  ;  "  I  don't 
believe  it !"  and  she  began  to  talk  about 
something  else.  But  a  few  moments  later, 
when  he  was  pointing  out  to  her  the  pretty 
design  of  an  antique  fireplace,  she  broke 
out  irrelevantly,  "  You  don't  mean  to  say 
you  are  going  back  to  Geneva  ?" 

"It  is  a  melancholy  fact  that  I  shall 
have  to  return  to-morrow." 

"Well,  Mr.  Winterbourne,"  said  Daisy, 
"  I  think  you're  horrid  !" 

"  Oh,  don't  say  such  dreadful  things  !" 
said  Winterbourne — "just  at  the  last !" 

"  The  last !"  cried  the  young  girl ;  "  I 
call  it  the  first.  I  have  half  a  mind  to 
leave  you  here  and  go  straight  back  to  the 
hotel  alone."  And  for  the  next  ten  min- 
utes she  did  nothing  but  call  him  horrid. 
Poor  Winterbourne  was  fairly  bewildered; 
no  young  lady  had  as  yet  done  him  the 
honor  to  be  so  agitated  by  the  announce- 
ment of  his  movements.  His  companion, 
after  this,  ceased  to  pay  any  attention  to 
the  curiosities  of  Chi  lion  or  the  beauties 

58 


of  the  lake;  she  opened 
fire  upon  the  mysteri- 
^.     ous  charmer  of  Gene- 
va, whom  she  appeared 
to  have   instantly  taken  it  for  granted 
that  lie  was  hurrying  back  to  see.     How 
did  Miss  Daisy  Miller  know  that  there 
was    a   charmer   in    Geneva  ?      Winter- 
bourne,  who  denied  the  existence  of  such 
a  person,  was  quite  unable  to  discover ; 
and  he  was  divided  between  amazement 
at   the    rapidity   of   her    induction    and 
amusement  at  the  frankness  of  her  per- 
siflage.   She  seemed  to  him,  in  all  this, 
an  extraordinary  mixture   of   innocence 
and  crudity.    "Does  she  never  allow  you 


more  than  three  days  at  a  time?"  asked 
Daisy,  ironically.  "  Doesn't  she  give  you 
a  vacation  in  summer  ?  There  is  no  one 
so  hard  worked  but  they  can  get  leave 
to  go  off  somewhere  at  this  season.  I 
suppose,  if  you  stay  another  day,  she'll 
come  after  you  in  the  boat.  Do  wait  over 
till  Friday,  and  I  will  go  down  to  the 
landing  to  see  her  arrive !"  Winter- 
bourne  began  to  think  he  had  been  wrong 
to  feel  disappointed  in  the  temper  in 
which  the  young  lady  had  embarked.  If 
he  had  missed  the  personal  accent,  the 
personal  accent  was  now  making  its  ap- 
pearance. It  sounded  very  distinctly,  at 
last,  in  her  telling  him  she  would  stop 
"teasing"  him  if  he  would  promise  her 
solemnly  to  come  down  to  Rome  in  the 
winter. 

"That's  not  a  difficult  promise  to  make," 
said  Winterbourne.  "My  aunt  has  taken 
an  apartment  in  Rome  for  the  winter, 
and  has  already  asked  me  to  come  and  see 
her." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  come  for  your 
aunt,"  said  Daisy  ;  "  I  want  you  to  come 
for  me."  And  this  was  the  only  allusion 
that  the  young  man  was  ever  to  hear  her 
make  to  his  invidious  kinswoman.  He 


declared  that,  at  any  rate,  he  would  cer- 
tainly come.  After  this  Daisy  stopped 
teasing.  Winterbourne  took  a  carriage, 
and  they  drove  back  to  Yevay  in  the 
dusk.  The  young  girl  was  very  quiet. 

In  the  evening  Winterbourne  mention- 
ed to  Mrs.  Costello  that  he  had  spent  the 
afternoon  at  Chillon  with  Miss  Daisy 
Miller. 

"  The  Americans  —  of  the  courier  ?" 
asked  this  lady. 

"  Ah,  happily,"  said  Winterbourne,  "  the 
courier  stayed  at  home." 

"  She  went  with  you  all  alone  ?" 

"  All  alone." 

Mrs.  Costello  sniffed  a  little  at  her  smell- 
ing-bottle. "And  that,"  she  exclaimed, 
"is  the  young  person  whom  you  wanted 
me  to  know !" 


INTERBOUKNE,  who  had  returned  to  Ge- 
neva the  day  after  his  excursion  to  Chil- 
lon,  went  to  Rome  towards  the  end  of 
January.  His  aunt  had  been  established 
there  for  several  weeks,  and  he  had  re- 
ceived a  couple  of  letters  from  her. 
"Those  people  you  were  so  devoted  to 
last  summer  at  Yevay  have  turned  up 
here,  courier  arid  all,"  she  wrote.  "  They 
seem  to  have  made  several  acquaintances, 
but  the  courier  continues  to  be  the  most 
intime.  The  young  lady,  however,  is  also 
very  intimate  with  some  third-rate  Ital- 
ians, with  whom  she  rackets  about  in  a 

63 


way  that  makes  much  talk.  Bring  me 
that  pretty  novel  of  Cherbuliez's — Paule 
Mere  —  and  don't  come  later  than  the 
23d." 

In  the  natural  course  of  events,  Win- 
terbourne,  on  arriving  in  Rome,  would 
presently  have  ascertained  Mrs.  Miller's 
address  at  the  American  banker's,  and 
have  gone  to  pay  his  compliments  to 
Miss  Daisy.  "  After  what  happened  at 
Yevay,  I  think  I  may  certainly  call  upon 
them,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Costello. 

"If,  after  what  happens  —  at  Yevay 
and  everywhere — you  desire  to  keep  up 
the  acquaintance,  you  are  very  welcome. 
Of  course  a  man  may  know  every  one. 
Men  are  welcome  to  the  privilege !" 

"  Pray  what  is  it  that  happens — here, 
for  instance?"  Winterbourne  demanded. 

"  The  girl  goes  about  alone  with  her 
foreigners.  As  to  what  happens  further, 
you  must  apply  elsewhere  for  informa- 
tion. She  has  picked  up  half  a  dozen  of 
the  regular  Roman  fortune-hunters,  and 
she  takes  them  about  to  people's  houses. 
When  she  comes  to  a  party  she  brings 
with  her  a  gentleman  with  a  good  deal 
of  manner  and  a  wonderful  mustache." 

"  And  where  is  the  mother  ?" 

64 


"I  haven't  the  least  idea.  They  are 
very  dreadful  people." 

Winterbourne  meditated  a  moment. 
a  They  are  very  ignorant — very  innocent 
only.  Depend  upon  it  they  are  not  bad." 

"They  are  hopelessly  vulgar,"  said 
Mrs.  Costello.  "Whether  or  no  being 
hopelessly  vulgar  is  being  'bad '  is  a  ques- 
tion for  the  metaphysicians.  They  are 
bad  enough  to  dislike,  at  any  rate ;  and 
for  this  short  life  that  is  quite  enough." 

The  news  that  Daisy  Miller  was  sur- 
rounded by  half  a  dozen  wonderful  mus- 
taches checked  Winterbourne's  impulse 
to  go  straightway  to  see  her.  He  had, 
perhaps,  not  definitely  flattered  himself 
that  he  had  made  an  ineffaceable  impres- 
sion upon  her  heart,  but  he  was  annoyed 
at  hearing  of  a  state  of  affairs  so  little  in 
harmony  with  an  image  that  had  lately 
flitted  in  and  out  of  his  own  meditations; 
the  image  of  a  very  pretty  girl  looking 
out  of  an  old  Roman  window  and  asking 
herself  urgently  when  Mr.  Winterbourne 
would  arrive.  If,  however,  he  determined 
to  wait  a  little  before  reminding  Miss 
Miller  of  his  claims  to  her  consideration, 
he  went  very  soon  to  call  upon  two  or 
three  other  friends.  One  of  these  friends 

65 


was  an  American  lady  who  had  spent 
several  winters  at  Geneva,  where  she  had 
placed  her  children  at  school.  She  was 
a  very  accomplished  woman,  and  she 
lived  in  the  Via  Gregorian  a.  Winter- 
bourne  found  her  in  a  little  crimson 
drawing-room  on  a  third  floor ;  the  room 
was  filled  with  southern  sunshine.  He 
had  not  been  there  ten  minutes  when  the 
servant  came  in,  announcing  "  Madame 
Mila !"  This  announcement  was  present- 
ly followed  by  the  entrance  of  little 
Randolph  Miller,  who  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  stood  staring  at 
Winterbourne.  An  instant  later  his  pret- 
ty sister  crossed  the  threshold  ;  and  then, 
after  a  considerable  interval,  Mrs.  Miller 
slowly  advanced. 

"I  know  you!"  said  Randolph. 

"  I'm  sure  you  know  a  great  many 
things,"  exclaimed  Winterbourne,  taking 
him  by  the  hand.  "  How  is  your  educa- 
tion coming  on  ?" 

Daisy  was  exchanging  greetings  very 
prettily  with  her  hostess ;  but  when  she 

heard  Winterbourne's  voice  she  quick- 
ly turned  her  head.  "Well,  I  de- 
clare !"  she  said. 

"I  told  you   I  should   come,  you 


know,"  Winterbourne  rejoined,  smil- 
ing. 

"Well,  I  didn't  believe  it,"  said  Miss 
Daisy. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  laughed 
the  young  man. 

"  You  might  have  come  to  see  me !" 
said  Daisy. 

"  I  arrived  only  yesterday." 

"  I  don't  believe  that !"  the  young  girl 
declared. 

Winterbourne  turned  with  a  protesting 
smile  to  her  mother ;  but  this  lady  evaded 
his  glance,  and,  seating  herself,  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  her  son.  "We've  got  a  bigger 
place  than  this,"  said  Randolph.  "It's 
all  gold  on  the  walls." 

Mrs.  Miller  turned  uneasily  in  her 
chair.  "  I  told  you  if  I  were  to  bring 
you,  you  would  say  something!"  she 
murmured. 

"I  told  you!"  Randolph  exclaimed. 
"  I  tell  you,  sir !"  he  added,  jocosely,  giv- 
ing Winterbourne  a  thump  on  the  knee. 
"  It  is  bigger,  too !" 

Daisy  had  entered  upon  a  lively  con- 
versation with  her  hostess,  and  Winter- 
bourne  judged  it  becoming  to  address  a 
few  words  to  her  mother.  "  I  hope  you 

67 


have  been  well  since  we  parted  at  Ve- 
vay,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Miller  now  certainly  looked  at 
him — at  his  chin.  "  Not  very  well,  sir," 
she  answered. 

"  She's  got  the  dyspepsia,"  said  Ean- 
•"/?.  dolph.  "  I've  got  it,  too.  Father's  got 
/  it.  I've  got  it  most !" 

This  announcement,  instead  of  embar- 
rassing Mrs.  Miller,  seemed  to  relieve 
her.  "  I  suffer  from  the  liver,"  she  said. 
"I  think  it's  this  climate;  it's  less  bracing 
than  Scheriectady,  especially  in  the  win- 
ter season.  I  don't  know  whether  you 
know  we  reside  at  Schenectady.  I  was 
saying  to  Daisy  that  I  certainly  hadn't 
found  any  one  like  Dr.  Davis,  and  I  didn't 
believe  I  should.  Oh,  at  Schenectady  he 
stands  first ;  they  think  everything  of 
him.  He  has  so  much  to  do,  and  yet 
there  was  nothing  he  wouldn't  do  for  me. 
He  said  he  never  saw  anything  like  my 
dyspepsia,  but  he  was  bound  to  cure  it. 
I'm  sure  there  was  nothing  he  wouldn't 
try.  He  was  just  going  to  try  something 
new  when  we  came  off.  Mr.  Miller  want- 
ed Daisy  to  see  Europe  for  herself.  But 
T  wrote  to  Mr.  Miller  that  it  seems  as  if 
I  couldn't  get  on  without  Dr.  Davis.  At 

68 


Schenectady  he  stands  at  the  very  top ; 
and  there's  a  great  deal  of  sickness  there, 
too.  It  affects  my  sleep." 

Winterbonrne  had  a  good  deal  of  path- 
ological gossip  with  Dr.  Davis's  patient, 
during  which  Daisy  chattered  unremit- 
tingly to  her  own  companion.  The  young 
man  asked  Mrs.  Miller  how  she  was 
pleased  with  Rome.  "Well,  I  must  say 
I  am  disappointed,"  she  answered.  "  We 
had  heard  so  much  about  it ;  I  suppose 
we  had  heard  too  much.  But  we  couldn't 
help  that.  We  had  been  led  to  expect 
something  different." 

"  Ah,  wait  a  little,  and  you  will  be- 
come very  fond  of  it,"  said  Winter- 
bourne. 

"  I  hate  it  worse  and  worse  every  day !" 
cried  Randolph. 

"  You  are  like  the  infant  Hannibal," 
said  Winterbonrne. 

"No,  I  ain't!"  Randolph  declared,  at 
a  venture. 

"You  are  not  much  like  an  infant," 
said  his  mother.  "  But  we  have  seen 
places,"  she  resumed,  "  that  I  should  put 
a  long  way  before  Rome."  And  in  reply 
to  Winterbourne's  interrogation,  "There's 
Zurich,"  she  concluded,  "  I  think  Zurich 

69 


is  lovely ;  and  we  hadn't  heard  half  so 
much  about  it." 

"The  best  place  we've  seen  is  the  City 
of  Eichmond  !"  said  Kandolph. 

"He  means  the  ship,"  his  mother  ex- 
plained. "We  crossed  in  that  ship. 
Kandolph  had  a  good  time  on  the  City 
of  Richmond" 

"It's  the  best  place  I've  seen,"  the 
child  repeated.  "  Only  it  was  turned  the 
wrong  way." 

"Well,  we've  got  to  turn  the  right  way 
some  time,"  said  Mrs.  Miller,  witli  a  little 
laugh.  Winterbourne  expressed  the  hope 
that  her  daughter  at  least  found  some 
gratification  in  Kome,  and  she  declared 
that  Daisy  was  quite  carried  away.  "  It's 
on  account  of  the  society — the  society's 
splendid.  She  goes  round  everywhere; 
she  has  made  a  great  number  of  acquaint- 
ances. Of  course  she  goes  round  more 
than  I  do.  I  must  say  they  have  been 
very  sociable ;  they  have  taken  her  right 
in.  And  then  she  knows  a  great  many 
gentlemen.  Oh,  she  thinks  there's  noth- 
ing like  Rome.  Of  course,  it's  a  great 
deal  pleasanter  for  a  young  lady  if  she 
knows  plenty  of  gentlemen." 

By  this   time  Daisy  had   turned  her 


attention  again  to  Winter-bourne.  "I've 
been  telling  Mrs.  Walker  how  mean  you 
were !"  the  young  girl  announced. 

"  And  what  is  the  evidence  you 
have  offered  ?"  asked  Winterbourne, 
rather  annoyed  at  Miss  Miller's 
want  of  appreciation  of  the  zeal  of 
an  admirer  who  on  his  way  down 
to  Rome  had  stopped  neither  at 
Bologna  nor  at  Florence,  simply 
because  of  a  certain  sentimental 
impatience.  He  remembered  that 
a  cynical  compatriot  had  once  told 
him  that  American  women  —  the 
pretty  ones,  and  this  gave  a  large- 
ness to  the  axiom  —  were  at  once 
the  most  exacting  in  the  world  and 
the  least  endowed  with  a  sense  of 
indebtedness. 

"Why,  you  were  awfully  mean  at 
Vevay,"  said  Daisy.  "You  wouldn't 
do  anything.  You  wouldn't  stay 
there  when  I  asked  you." 

"  My  dearest  young  lady,"  cried 
Winterbourne,  with  eloquence, 
"  have  I  come  all  the  way  to  Rome 
to  encounter  your  reproaches  ?" 

"  Just  hear  him  say  that !"  said 
Daisy  to  her  hostess,  giving  a  twist 


to  a.  bow  on  this  lady's  dress.  "  Did  you 
ever  bear  anything  so  quaint  ?" 

"  So  quaint,  my  dear  ?"  murmured  Mrs. 
Walker,  in  the  tone  of  a  partisan  of  Win- 
terbourne. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Daisy,  fin- 
gering Mrs.  Walker's  ribbons.  "Mrs. 
Walker,  1  want  to  tell  yon  something." 

"  Mother-r,"  interposed  Randolph,  with 
his  rough  ends  to  his  words,  "  I  tell  you 
you've  got  to  go.  Eugenio  '11  raise — 
something !" 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  Eugenio,"  said  Daisy, 
with  a  toss  of  her  head.  "Look  here, 
Mrs.  Walker,"  she  went  on,  "  you  know 
I'm  coming  to  your  party." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it," 

"  I've  got  a  lovely  dress !" 

"I  am  very  sure  of  that." 

"But  I  want  to  ask  a  favor — permis- 
sion to  bring  a  friend." 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  see  any  of  your 
friends,"  said  Mrs.  Walker,  turning  with 
a  smile  to  Mrs.  Miller. 

"  Oh,  they  are  not  my  friends,'1  an- 
swered Daisy's  mamma,  smiling  shyly,  in 
her  own  fashion.  "  I  never  spoke  to 
them." 

"  It's  an  intimate  friend  of  mine — Mr. 

72 


Giovanelli,"  said  Daisy,  without  a  tremor 
in  her  clear  little  voice,  or  a  shadow  on 
her  brilliant  little  face. 

Mrs.  Walker  was  silent  a  moment;  she 
gave  a  rapid  glance  at  Winterbourne.  "  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  Mr.  Giovanelli,"  she 
then  saiii. 

"He's  an  Italian,"  Daisy  pursued,  with 
the  prettiest  serenity.  "  He's  a  great 
friend  of  mine  ;  he's  the  handsomest  man 
in  the  world — except  Mr.  Winterbourne! 
He  knows  plenty  of  Italians,  but  he 
wants  to  know  some  Americans.  He 
thinks  ever  so  much  of  Americans.  He's 
tremendously  clever.  He's  perfectly 
lovely !" 

It  was  settled  that  this  brilliant  per- 
sonage should  be  brought  to  Mrs.  Walk- 
er's party,  and  then  Mrs.  Miller  prepared 
to  take  her  leave.  "  I  guess  we'll  go 
back  to  the  hotel,"  she  said. 

"  You  may  go  back  to  the  hotel,  moth- 
er, but  I'm  going  to  take  a  walk,"  said 
Daisy. 

"  She's  going  to  walk  with  Mr.  Giova- 
nelli," Randolph  proclaimed. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  Pincio,"  said  Daisy, 
smiling. 

"  Alone,  my  dear — at  this  hour  ?"  Mrs. 

73 


Walker  asked.  The  afternoon  was  draw- 
ing to  a  close — it  was  the  hour  for  the 
throng  of  carriages  and  of  contemplative 
pedestrians.  "  I  don't  think  it's  safe,  my 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Walker. 

"  Neither  do  I,"  subjoined  Mrs.  Miller. 
"You'll  get  the  fever,  as  sure  as  you  live. 
Remember  what  Dr.  Davis  told  you  !" 

"  Give  her  some  medicine  before  she 
goes,"  said  Randolph. 

The  company  had  risen  to  its  feet ; 
Daisy,  still  showing  her  pretty  teeth,  bent 
over  and  kissed  her  hostess.  "  Mrs. 
Walker,  you  are  too  perfect,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  not  going  alone ;  I  am  going  to 
meet  a  friend." 

"  Your  friend  won't  keep  you  from 
getting  the  fever,"  Mrs.  Miller  observed. 
"Is    it    Mr.  Giovanelli?"    asked    the 
hostess. 

Winterbourne  was  watching  the  young 
girl ;   at  this  question  his  attention 
quickened.    She  stood  there  smiling 
and  smoothing  her  bonnet  ribbons ; 
she  glanced  at  Winterbourne. 
Then,  while  she  glanced  and 
smiled,  she  answered,  without  a 
shade  of   hesitation,  "Mr.  Giova- 
nelli— the  beautiful  Giovanelli." 


Mr 


"  My  dear  young  friend,"  said  Mrs. 
Walker,  taking  her  hand,  pleadingly, 
"  don't  walk  off  to  the  Pincio  at  this 
unhealthy  hour  to  meet  a  beautiful  Ital- 
ian." 

"  Well,  he  speaks  English,"  said  Mrs. 
Miller. 

"  Gracious  me  !"  Daisy  exclaimed,  "  I 
don't  want  to  do  anything  improper. 
There's  an  easy  way  to  settle  it."  She 
continued  to  glance  at  Winterbourne. 
"The  Pincio  is  only  a  hundred  yards  dis- 
tant; and  if  Mr.  Winterbourne  were  as 
polite  as  he  pretends,  he  would  offer  to 
walk  with  me!" 

Winterbourne's  politeness  hastened  to 
affirm  itself,  and  the  young  girl  gave  him 
gracious  leave  to  accompany  her.  They 
passed  down -stairs  before  her  mother, 
and  at  the  door  Winterbourne  perceived 
Mrs.  Miller's  carriage  drawn  up,  with  the 
ornamental  courier,  whose  acquaintance 
he  had  made  at  Yevay,  seated  within. 
" Good-bye, Engenio!"  cried  Daisy;  "I'm 
going  to  take  a  walk."  The  distance 
from  the  Via  Gregoriana  to  the  beautiful 
garden  at  the  other  end  of  the  Pincian 
Hill  is,  in  fact,  rapidly  traversed.  As  the 
day  was  splendid,  however,  and  the  con-. 


7.-. 


course  of  vehicles,  walkers,  and  loungers 
numerous,  the  young  Americans  found 
their  progress  much  delayed.  This  fact 
was  highly  agreeable  to  Winter- 
bourne,  in  spite  of  his  conscious- 
ness of  his  singular  situation.  The 
slow-moving,  idly-gazing  Roman 
crowd  bestowed  much  attention 
upon- the  extremely  pretty  young 
L^  foreign  lady  who  was  passing 
|p  through  it  upon  his  arm  ;  and  he 
wondered  what  on  earth  had  been 
in  Daisy's  mind  when  she  pro- 
posed to  expose  herself,  unattend- 
ed, to  its  appreciation.  His  own 
mission,  to  her  sense,  apparently, 
was  to  consign  her  to  the  hands 
of  Mr.  Giovanelli ;  but  Winter- 
bourne,  at  once  annoyed  and  grat- 
ified, resolved  that  he  would  do 
no  such  thing. 

"Why  haven't  you  been  to  see 
me  ?"  asked  Daisy.  "  You  can't 
get  out  of  that." 

"  I  have  had  the  honor  of  tell- 
ing you  that  I  have  only  just 
stepped  out  of  the  train." 


"You  must  have  stayed  in  the  train  a 
good  while  after  it  stopped!"  cried  the 
young  girl,  with  her  little  laugh.  "  I 
suppose  you  were  asleep.  You  have  had 
time  to  go  to  see  Mrs.  Walker." 

"I  knew  Mrs.  Walker-  Winter- 
bourne  began  to  explain. 

"  I  know  where  you  knew  her.  You 
knew  her  at  Geneva.  She  told  me  so. 
Well,  you  knew  me  at  Yevay.  That's 
just  as  good.  So  you  ought  to  have 
come."  She  asked  him  no  other  ques- 
tion than  this  ;  she  began  to  prattle  about 
her  own  affairs.  "We've  got  splendid 
rooms  at  the  hotel ;  Eugenio  says  they're 
the  best  rooms  in  Rome.  We  are  going 
to  stay  all  winter,  if  we  don't  die  of  the 
fever;  and  I  guess  we'll  stay  then.  It's 
a  great  deal  nicer  than  I  thought ;  I 
thought  it  would  be  fearfully  quiet ;  I 
was  sure  it  would  be  awfully  poky.  I 
was  sure  we  should  be  going  round  all 
the  time  with  one  of  those  dreadful  old 
men  that  explain  about  the  pictures  and 
things.  But  we  only  had  about  a  week 
of  that,  and  now  I'm  enjoying  myself. 
I  know  ever  so  many  people,  and  they 
are  all  so  charming.  The  society's  ex- 
tremely select.  There  are  all  kinds — 


77 


English  and  Germans  and  Italians.  I 
think  I  like  the  English  best.  I  like 
their  style  of  conversation.  But  there 
are  some  lovely  Americans.  I  never  saw 
anything  so  hospitable.  There's  some- 
thing or  other  every  day.  There's  not 
much  dancing;  but  I  must  say  I  never 
thought  dancing  was  everything.  I  was 
always  fond" of  conversation.  I  guess  I 
shall  have  plenty  at  Mrs.  Walker's,  her 
rooms  are  so  small."  When  they  had 
passed  the  gate  of  the  Pincian  Gardens, 
Miss  Miller  began  to  wonder  where  Mr. 
Giovanelli  might  be.  "We  had  better 
go  straight  to  that  place  in  front,"  she 
said,  "  where  you  look  at  the  view." 

"  I  certainly  shall  not  help  you  to  find 
him,"  Winterbourne  declared. 

"  Then  I  shall  find  him  without  you," 
said  Miss  Daisy. 

"You  certainly  won't  leave  me  !"  cried 
Winterbourne. 

She  burst  into  her  little  laugh.  "  Are 
you  afraid  you'll  get  lost — or  run  over? 
But  there's  Giovanelli,  leaning  against  that 
tree.  He's  staring  at  the  women  in  the  car- 
riages ;  did  you  ever  see  anything  so  cool  ?" 

Winterbourne  perceived  at  some  dis- 
tance a  little  man  standing  with  folded 


78 


arms  nursing  his  cane.  He  had  a  hand- 
some face,  an  artfully  poised  hat,  a  glass 
in  one  eye,  and  a  nosegay  in  his  button- 
hole. Winterbourne  looked  at  him  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  "  Do  you  mean 
to  speak  to  that  man  ?" 

"  Do  I  mean  to  speak  to  him  ?  Why, 
you  don't  suppose  I  mean  to  communi- 
cate by  signs  ?" 

"Pray  understand,  then,"  said 
Winterbourne,  "  that  I  intend  to 
remain  with  you." 

Daisy  stopped   and   looked  at 
him,  without  a  sign  of  troubled 
consciousness  in  her  face ;  with 
nothing  but  the  presence  of  her 
charming  eyes  and  her  happy  dim- 
ples.    "Well,  she's  a  cool  one!" 
thought  the  young  man. 

"  I  don't  like  the  way  you  say 
that,"  said  Daisy.  "It's  too  im- 
perious." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  say  it 
wrong.  The  main  point  is  to  give 
you  an  idea  of  my  meaning." 

The  young  girl  looked  at  him 
more  gravely,  but  with  eyes  that 
were  prettier  than  ever.  "  I  have 
never  allowed  a  gentleman  to  die- 


tate  to  me,  or  to  interfere  with  anything 
I  do." 

"I  think  you  have  made  a  mistake," 
said  Winterbourne.  "  You  should  some- 
times listen  to  a  gentleman  —  the  right 
one." 

Daisy  began  to  laugh  again.  "  I  do 
nothing  but  listen  to  gentlemen  !"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Tell  me  if  Mr.  Giovanelli  is 
the  right  one." 

The  gentleman  with  the  nosegay  in 
his  bosom  had  now  perceived  our  two 
friends,  and  was  approaching  the  young 
girl  with  obsequious  rapidity.  He  bowed 
to  Winterbourne  as  well  as  to  the  latter's 
companion  ;  he  had  a  brilliant  smile,  an 
intelligent  eye ;  Winterbourne  thought 
him  not  a  bad -looking  fellow,  But  he 
nevertheless  said  to  Daisy,  "  No,  he's  not 
the  right  one." 

Daisy  evidently  had  a  natural  talent 
for  performing  introductions ;  she  men- 
tioned the  name  of  each  of  her  compan- 
ions to  the  other.  She  strolled  along 
with  one  of  them  on  each  side  of  her; 
Mr.  Giovanelli,  who  spoke  English  very 
cleverly — Winterbourne  afterwards  learn- 
ed that  he  had  practised  the  idiom  upon 
a  great  many  American  heiresses  —  ad- 


dressed  to  her  a  great  deal  of  very 
polite  nonsense ;  he  was  extreme- 
ly urbane,  and  the  young  Ameri- 
can, who  said  nothing,  reflected 
upon  that  profundity  of  Italian 
cleverness  which  enables  people 
to  appear  more  gracious  in  pro- 
portion as  they  are  more  acute- 
ly disappointed.  Giovanelli,  of 
course,  had  counted  upon  some- 
thing more  intimate  ;  he  had  not 
bargained  for  a  party  of  three. 
But  he  kept  his  temper  in  a  man- 
ner which  suggested  far-stretch- 
ing intentions.  Winterbourne  flattered 
himself  that  he  had  taken  his  measure. 
"  He  is  not  a  gentleman,"  said  the  young 
American  ;  "  he  is  only  a  clever  imita- 
tion of  one.  He  is  a  music -master,  or 
a  penny-a-liner,  or  a  third-rate  artist. 
I) — n  his  good  looks!"  Mr.  Giovanelli 
had  certainly  a  very  pretty  face ;  but 
Winterbourne  felt  a  superior  indigna- 
tion at  his  own  lovely  fellow -country- 
woman's not  knowing  the  difference  be- 
tween a  spurious  gentleman  and  a  real 
one.  Giovanelli  chattered  and  jested, 
and  made  himself  wonderfully  agreeable. 
It  was  true  that,  if  he  was  an  imitation, 

81 


the  imitation  was  brilliant.  "  Neverthe- 
less," Winterbourne  said  to  himself,  "  a 
nice  girl  ought  to  know !"  And  then 
he  came  back  to  the  question  whether 
this  was,  in  fact,  a  nice  girl.  •  Would  a 
nice  girl,  even  allowing  for  her  being  a 
little  American  flirt,  make  a  rendezvous 
with  a  presumably  low-lived  foreigner? 
The  rendezvous  in  this  case,  indeed,  had 
been  in  broad  daylight,  and  in  the  most 
crowded  corner  of  Rome  ;  but  was  it  not 
impossible  to  regard  the  choice  of  these 
circumstances  as  a  proof  of  extreme  cyn- 
icism? Singular  though  it  may  seem, 
Winterbourne  was  vexed  that  the  young 
girl,  in  joining  her  amoroso,  should  not 
appear  more  impatient  of  his  own  com- 
pany, and  he  was  vexed  because  of  his 
inclination.  It  was  impossible  to  regard 
her  as  a  perfectly  well-conducted  young 
lady ;  she  was  wanting  in  a  certain  indis- 
pensable delicacy.  It  would  therefore 
simplify  matters  greatly  to  be  able  to 
treat  her  as  the  object  of  one  of  those 
sentiments  which  are  called  by  romancers 
"  lawless  passions."  That  she  should  seem 
to  wish  to  get  rid  of  him  would  help  him 
to  think  more  lightly  of  her,  and  to  be 
able  to  think  more  lightly  of  her  would 

82 


make  her  much  less  perplexing.  But 
Daisy,  on  this  occasion,  continued  to  pre- 
sent herself  as  an  inscrutable  combination 
of  audacity  and  innocence. 

She  had  been  walking  some  quarter  of 
an  hour,  attended  by  her  two  cavaliers, 
and  responding  in  a  tone  of  very  childish 
gayety,  as  it  seemed  to  Winterbourne,  to 
the  pretty  speeches  of  Mr.  Giovanelli, 
when  a  carriage  that  had  detached  itself 
from  the  revolving  train  drew  up  beside 
the  path.  At  the  same  moment  Winter- 
bourne  perceived  that  his  friend  Mrs. 
Walker — the  lady  whose  house  he  had 
lately  left — was  seated  in  the  vehicle,  and 
was  beckoning  to  him.  Leaving  Miss 
Miller's  side,  he  hastened  to  obey  her 
summons.  Mrs.  Walker  was  flushed ;  she 
wore  an  excited  air.  "  It  is  really  too 
dreadful,"  she  said.  "That  girl  must 
not  do  this  sort  of  thing.  She  must  not 
walk  here  with  you  two  men.  Fifty 
people  have  noticed  her." 

Winterbourne  raised  his  eyebrows.  "I 
think  it's  a  pity  to  make  too  much  fuss 
about  it." 

"It's  a  pity  to  let  the  girl  ruin  herself!" 

"She  is  very  innocent,"  said  Winter- 
bourne. 


"  She's  very  crazy  !"  cried  Mrs.  Walker. 
"Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  imbecile 
as  her  mother?  After  you  had  all  left 
me  just  now  I  could  not  sit  still  for 
thinking  of  it.  It  seemed  too  pitiful 
not  even  to  attempt  to  save  her.  I  order- 
ed the  carriage  and  put  on  my  bonnet, 
and  came  here  as  quickly  as  possible. 
Thank  Heaven  I  have  found  you !" 
"  What  do  you  propose  to  do  with  us?" 
asked  Winterbourne,  smilingo 
"  To  ask  her  to  get  in,  to  drive 
her  about  here  for  half  an  hour, 
so  that  the  world  may  see 
that  she  is  not  running  ab- 
solutely  wild,  and  then  to 

take  her  safely  home." 
jyp      ^£  "I  don't  think  it's  a 

jjp>     very  happy  thought,"  said 
^r\*  Winterbourne;  u  but  you 

can  try." 


Mrs.  Walker  tried.  The  young  man 
went  in  pursuit  of  Miss  Miller,  who  had 
simply  nodded  and  smiled  at  his  inter- 
locutor in  the  carriage,  and  had  gone  her 
way  with  her  companion.  Daisy,  on 
learning  that  Mrs.  Walker  wished  to 
speak  to  her,  retraced  her  steps  with  a 
perfect  good  grace  and  with  Mr.  Giova- 
nelli  at  her  side.  She  declared  that  she 
was  delighted  to  have  a  chance  to  present 
this  gentleman  to  Mrs.  Walker.  She  im- 
mediately achieved  the  introduction,  and 
declared  that  she  had  never  in  her  life 
seen  anything  so  lovely  as  Mrs.  Walker's 
carriage-rug. 

"I  am  glad  you  admire  it,"  said  this 
lady,  smiling  sweetly.  "  Will  you  get  in 
and  let  me  put  it  over  you  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  said  Daisy.  "  I 
shall  admire  it  much  more  as  I  see  you 
driving  round  with  it." 

"Do  get  in  and  drive  with  me!"  said 
Mrs.  Walker. 

"  That  would  be  charming,  but  it's  so 
enchanting  just  as  I  am  !"  and  Daisy  gave 
a  brilliant  glance  at  the  gentlemen  on 
either  side  of  her. 

"It  may  be  enchanting,  dear  child,  but 
it  is  not  the  custom  here,"  urged  Mrs. 

85 


Walker,  leaning  forward  in  her  victoria, 
with  her  hands  devoutly  clasped. 

"Well,  it  ought  to  be,  then!"  said 
Daisy.  "  If  I  didn't  walk  I  should  ex- 
pire." 

"  You  should  walk  with  your  mother, 
dear,"  cried  the  lady  from  Geneva,  losing 
patience. 

"  With  my  mother,  dear !"  exclaimed 
the  young  girl.  Winterbourne  saw  that 
she  scented  interference.  "My  mother 
never  walked  ten  steps  in  her  life.  And 
then,  you  know,"  she  added,  with  a  laugh, 
"  I  am  more  than  five  years  old." 

"  You  are  old  enough  to  be  more  rea- 
sonable. You  are  old  enough,  dear  Miss 
Miller,  to  be  talked  about." 

Daisy  looked  at  Mrs.  Walker,  smiling 
intensely.  "Talked  about?  What  do 
you  mean?" 

"  Come  into  my  carriage,  and  I  will 
tell  you." 

Daisy  turned  her  quickened  glance 
again  from  one  of  the  gentlemen  beside 
her  to  the  other.  Mr.  Giovanelli  was  bow- 
ing to  and  fro,  rubbing  down  his  gloves 
and  laughing  very  agreeably ;  Winter- 
bourne  thought  it  a  most  unpleasant 
scene.  "I  don't  think  I  want  to  know 


what  you  mean,"  said  Daisy,  presently. 
"  I  don't  think  I  should  like  it." 

Winterbourne  wished  that  Mrs.  Walk- 
er would  tuck  in  -her  carriage -rug  and 
drive  away ;  but  this  lady  did  not  enjoy 
being  defied,  as  she  afterwards  told  him. 
"Should  you  prefer  being  thought  a  very 
reckless  girl?"  she  demanded. 

"  Gracious !"  exclaimed  Daisy.  She 
looked  again  at  Mr.  Giovanelli,  then  she 
turned  to  Winterbourne.  There  was  a 
little  pink  flush  in  her  cheek ;  she  was 
tremendously  pretty.  "  Does  Mr.  Win- 
terbourne think,"  she  asked  slowly,  smil- 
ing, throwing  back  her  head  and  glancing 
at  him  from  head  to  foot,  "  that,  to  save 
my  reputation,  I  ought  to  get  into  the 
carriage  ?" 

Winterbourne  colored ;  for  an  instant 
he  hesitated  greatly.  It  seemed  so  strange 
to  hear  her  speak  that  way  of  her  "  repu- 
tation." But  he  himself,  in  fact,  must 
speak  in  accordance  with  gallantry.  The 
finest  gallantry  here  was  simply  to  tell 
her  the  truth,  and  the  truth  for  Winter- 
bourne — as  the  few  indications  I  have 
been  able  to  give  have  made  him  known 
to  the  reader  —  was  that  Daisy  Miller 
should  take  Mrs.  Walker's  advice.  He 

87 


looked  at  her  exquisite  prettiness,  and 
then  said,  very  gently, "  I  think  you  should 
get  into  the  carriage." 

Daisy  gave  a  violent  laugh.  "  I  never 
heard  anything  so  stiff!  If  this  is  im- 
proper, Mrs.  Walker,"  she  pursued,  "then 
I  arn  all  improper,  and  you  must  give 
me  up.  Good-bye ;  I  hope  you'll  have  a 
lovely  ride!"  and,  with  Mr.  Giovanelli, 
who  made  a  triumphantly  obsequious  sa- 
lute, she  turned  away. 

Mrs.  Walker  sat  looking  after  her,  and 
there  were  tears  in  Mrs.  Walker's  eyes. 
"  Get  in  here,  sir,"  she  said  to  Winter- 
bourne,  indicating  the  place  beside  her. 
The  young  man  answered  that  he  felt 
bound  to  accompany  Miss  Miller ;  where- 
upon Mrs.  Walker  declared  that  if  he  re- 
fused her  this  favor  she  would  never 
speak  to  him  again.  She  was  evidently 
in  earnest.  Winterbourne  overtook  Daisy 
and  her  companion,  and,  offering  the  young 
girl  his  hand,  told  her  that  Mrs.  Walker 
had  made  an  imperious  claim  upon  his 
society.  He  expected  that  in  answer  she 
would  say  something  rather  free,  some- 
thing to  commit  herself  still  further  to 
that  "recklessness"  from  which  Mrs. 
Walker  had  so  charitably  endeavored  to 


dissuade  her.  But  she  only  shook  his 
hand,  hardly  looking  at  him ;  while  Mr. 
Giovanelli  bade  him  farewell  with  a  too 
emphatic  flourish  of  the  hat. 

Winterbourne  was  not  in  the  best  pos- 
sible humor  as  he  took  his  seat  in  Mrs. 
Walker's  victoria.  "  That  was  not  clever 
of  you,"  he  said,  candidly,  while  the  vehi- 
cle mingled  again  with  the  throng  of  car- 
riages. 

"In  such  a  case,"  his  companion  an- 
swered, "  I  don't  wish  to  be  clever ;  I 
wish  to  be  earnest  /" 

"  Well,  your  earnestness  lias  only  of- 
fended her  and  put  her  off." 

"  It  has  happened  very  well,"  said  Mrs. 
Walker.  "If  she  is  so  perfectly  deter- 
mined to  compromise  herself,  the  sooner 
one  knows  it  the  better;  one  can  act  ac- 
cordingly." 

"  I  suspect  she  meant  no  harm,"  Win- 
terbourne rejoined. 

"  So  I  thought  a  month  ago.  But  she 
has  been  going  too  far." 

"What  has  she  been  doing?" 

"Everything  that  is  not  done  here. 
Flirting  with  any  man  she  could  pick 
up ;  sitting  in  corners  with  mysterious 
Italians;  dancing  all  the  evening  with 


the  same  partners ;  receiving  visits  at 
eleven  o'clock  at  night.  Her  mother 
goes  away  when  visitors  come." 

"  But  her  brother,"  said  Winterbonrne, 
laughing,  "  sits  up  till  midnight." 

"  He  must  be  edified  by  what  he  sees. 
I'm  told  that  at  their  hotel  every  one  is 
talking  about  her,  and  that  a  smile  goes 
round  among  all  the  servants  when  a  gen- 
tleman comes  and  asks  for  Miss  Miller." 

"  The  servants  be  hanged  !"  said  Win- 
terbourne,  angrily.  "  The  poor  girl's  only 
fault,"  he  presently  added,  "  is  that  she 
is  very  uncultivated." 

"  She  is  naturally  indelicate,"  Mrs. 
"Walker  declared.  "Take  that  example 
this  morning.  How  long  had  you  known 
her  at  Yevay  ?" 

"A  couple  of  days." 
"  Fancy,  then,  her  making  it  a 
personal  matter  that  you  should 
have  left  the  place !" 
Winterbonrne  was  silent  for  some 
moments;  then  he  said,  "I  suspect, 
Mrs.  Walker,  that  you  and  I  have  lived 
too  long  at  Geneva!"     And  he  added  a 
request  that  she  should  inform  him  with 
what  particular  design  she  had  made 
him  enter  her  carriage. 


u  I  wished  to  beg  you  to  cease  your  re- 
lations with  Miss  Miller — not  to  flirt  with 
her — to  give  her  no  further  opportunity 
to  expose  herself — to  let  her  alone,  in 
short." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  do  that,"  said  Win- 
terbourne.  "  I  like  her  extremely." 

"  All  the  more  reason  that  you  shouldn't 
help  her  to  make  a  scandal." 

"  There  shall  be  nothing  scandalous  in 
my  attentions  to  her." 

"There  certainly  will  be  in  the  way 
she  takes  them.  But  I  have  said  what  I 
had  on  my  conscience,"  Mrs.  Walker  pur- 
sued. "  If  you  wish  to  rejoin  the  young 
lady  I  will  put  you  down.  Here,  by-the- 
way,  you  have  a  chance." 

The  carriage  was  traversing  that  part 
of  the  Pincian  Garden  that  overhangs  the 
wall  of  Rome  and  overlooks  the  beautiful 
Villa  Borghese.  It  is  bordered  by  a 
large  parapet,  near  which  there  are  sev- 
eral seats.  One  of  the  seats  at  a  distance 
was  occupied  by  a  gentleman  and  a  lady, 
towards  whom  Mrs.  Walker  gave  a  toss 
of  her  head.  At  the  same  moment  these 
persons  rose  and  walked  towards  the  par- 
apet. Winterbourne  had  asked  the  coach- 
man to  stop ;  he  now  descended  from 


n 


the  carriage.  His  companion  looked  at 
him  a  moment  in  silence  ;  then,  while  he 
raised  his  hat,  she  drove  majestically 
away.  Winterbourne  stood  there ;  he  had 
turned  his  eyes  towards  Daisy  and  her 
cavalier.  They  evidently  saw  no  one; 
they  were  too  deeply  occupied  with  each 
other.  When  they  reached  the  low  gar- 
den-wall they  stood  a  moment  looking  off 
at  the  great  flat-topped  pine-clusters  of 
the  Villa  Borghese ;  then  Giovanelli  seated 
himself  familiarly  upon  the  broad  ledge 
of  the  wall.  The  western  sun  in  the  op- 
posite sky  sent  out  a  brilliant  shaft  through 
a  couple  of  cloud-bars,  whereupon  Daisy's 
companion  took  her  parasol  out  of  her 
hands  and  opened  it.  She  came  a  little 
nearer,  and  he  held  the  parasol  over  her ; 
then,  still  holding  it,  he  let  it  rest  upon 
her  shoulder,  so  that  both  of  their  heads 
were  hidden  from  Winterbourne.  This 
young  man  lingered  a  moment,  then  he 
began  to  walk.  But  he  walked  —  not 
towards  the  couple  with  the  parasol— 
towards  the  residence  of  his  aunt,  Mrs. 
Costello. 

He  flattered  himself  on  the  following 
day  that  there  was  no  smiling  among  the 
servants  when  he,  at  least,  asked  for  Mrs. 


Miller  at  her  hotel.  This  lady  and  her 
daughter,  however,  were  not  at  home  ; 
and  on  the  next  day  after,  repeating  his 
visit,  Winterbourne  again  had  the  mis- 
fortune not  to  find  them.  Mrs.  Walker's 
party  took  place  on  the  evening  of  the 
third  day,  and,  in  spite  of  the  frigidity 
of  his  last  interview  with  the  hostess, 
Winterbourne  was  among  the  guests. 
Mrs.  Walker  was  one  of  those  American 
ladies  who,  while  residing  abroad,  make  a 
point,  in  their  own  phrase,  of  studying 
European  society ;  and  she  had  on  this 
occasion  collected  several  specimens  of 
her  diversely-born  fellow-mortals  to  serve, 
as  it  were,  as  text-books.  When  Winter- 
borne  arrived,  Daisy  Miller  was  not  there, 
but  in  a  few  moments  he  saw  her  mother 
come  in  alone,  very  shyly  and  ruefully. 
Mrs.  Miller's  hair  above  her  exposed- 
looking  temples  was  more  frizzled  than 
ever.  As  she  approached  Mrs.  Walker, 
Winterbourne  also  drew  near. 

"  You  see  I've  come  all  alone,"  said 
poor  Mrs.  Miller.  "  I'm  so  frightened 
I  don't  know  what  to  do.  It's  the  first 
time  I've  ever  been  to  a  party  alone,  es- 
pecially in  this  country.  I  wanted  to 
bring  Randolph,  or  Eugenio,  or  some  one, 


but  Daisy  just  pushed  me  off  by  myself. 
I  ain't  used  to  going  round  alone." 

"And  does  not  your  daughter  intend 
to  favor  us  with  her  society  ?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Walker,  impressively. 

"Well,  Daisy's  all  dressed,"  said  Mrs. 
Miller,  with  that  accent  of  the  dispassion- 
ate, if  not  of  the  philosophic,  historian 
with  which  she  always  recorded  the  cur- 
rent incidents  of  her  daughter's  career. 
"  She  got  dressed  on  purpose  before  din- 
ner. But  she's  got  a  friend  of  hers  there; 
that  gentleman — the  Italian — that  she 
wanted  to  bring.  They've  got  going  at 
the  piano;  it  seems  as  if  they  couldn't 
leave  off.  Mr.  Giovanelli  sings  splendid- 
ly. But  I  guess  they'll  come  before  very 
long,"  concluded  Mrs.  Miller,  hopefully. 

"I'm  sorry  she  should  come  in  that 
way,"  said  Mrs.  Walker. 

"  Well,  I  told  her  that  there  was  no 
use  in  her  getting  dressed  before  dinner 
if  she  was  going  to  wait  three  hours,"  re- 
sponded Daisy's  mamma.  "  I  didn't  see 
the  use  of  her  putting  on  such  a  dress  as 
that  to  sit  round  with  Mr.  Giovanelli." 

"  This  is  most  horrible !"  said  Mrs. 
Walker,  turning  away  and  addressing  her- 
self to  Winterbourne.  "Elles'affiche.  It's 


her  revenge  for  my  having  ventured 
to  remonstrate  with  her.  When  she 
comes  I  shall  not  speak  to  her." 

Daisy  came  after  eleven  o'clock ; 
but  she  was  not,  on  such  an  occasion, 
a  young  lady  to  wait  to  be  spoken  to. 
She  rustled  forward  in  radiant  loveli- 
ness, smiling  and  chattering,  carrying 
a  large  bouquet,  and  attended  by  Mr. 
Giovanelli.  Every  one  stopped  talk- 
ing, and  turned  and  looked  at  her. 
She  came  straight  to  Mrs.  Walker. 
"  I'm  afraid  you  thought  I  never  was 
coming,  so  I  sent  mother  off  to  tell 
you.  I  wanted  to  make  Mr.  Giova- 
nelli practise  some  things  before  he 
came  ;  you  know  he  sings  beautifully, 
and  I  want  you  to  ask  him  to  sing. 
This  is  Mr.  Giovanelli ;  you  know  I 
introduced  him  to  you ;  he's  got  the 
most  lovely  voice,  and  he  knows  the 
most  charming  set  of  songs.  I  made 
him  go  over  them  this  evening  on  pur- 
pose ;  we  had  the  greatest  time  at  the 
hotel."  Of  all  this  Daisy  delivered 
herself  with  the  sweetest,  brightest 

O 

audibleness,  looking  now  at  her  host- 

97 


ess  and  now  round  the  room,  while  she 
gave  a  series  of  little  pats  round  her 
shoulders  to  the  edges  of  her  dress.  "  Is 
there  any  one  I  know  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  think  every  one  knows  you !"  said 
Mrs.  Walker,  pregnantly,  and  she  gave  a 
very  cursory  greeting  to  Mr.  Giovanelli. 
This  gentleman  bore  himself  gallantly. 
He  smiled  and  bowed,  and  showed  his 
white  teeth  ;  he  curled  his  mustaches  and 
rolled  his  eyes,  and  performed  all  the 
proper  functions  of  a  handsome  Italian 
at  an  evening  party.  He  sang  very  pret- 
tily half  a  dozen  songs,  though  Mrs. 
Walker  afterwards  declared  that  she  had 
been  quite  unable  to  find  out  who  asked 
him.  It  was  apparently  not  Daisy  who 
had  given  him  his  orders.  Daisy  sat  at  a 
distance  from  the  piano  ;  and  though  she 
had  publicly,  as  it  were,  professed  a  high 
admiration  for  his  singing,  talked,  not  in- 
audibly,  while  it  was  going  on. 

"  It's  a  pity  these  rooms  are  so  small ; 
we  can't  dance,"  she  said  to  Winter- 
bourne,  as  if  she  had  seen  him  five  min- 
utes before. 

"  I  am  not  sorry  we  can't  dance,"  Win- 
terbourne  answered  ;  "  I  don't  dance." 

"  Of  course  you  don't  dance  ;  you're 


too  stiff,"  said  Miss  Daisy.  "  I  hope  you 
enjoyed  your  drive  with  Mrs.  AValker !" 

"No,  I  didn't  enjoy  it;  I  preferred 
walking  with  you." 

"  We  paired  off;  that  was  much  better," 
said  Daisy.  "  But  did  you  ever  hear  any- 
thing so  cool  as  Mrs.  Walker's  wanting 
me  to  get  into  her  carriage  and  drop  poor 
Mr.  Giovanelli,  and  under  the  pretext 
that  it  was  proper  ?  People  have  differ- 
ent ideas !  It  would  have  been  most  un- 
kind; he  had  been  talking  about  that 
walk  for  ten  days." 

"He  should  not  have  talked  about  it 
at  all,"  said  Winterbourne ;  "  he  would 
never  have  proposed  to  a  young  lady  of 
this  country  to  walk  about  the  streets 
with  him." 

"  About  the  streets  ?"  cried  Daisy,  with 
her  pretty  stare.  "  Where,  then,  would 
he  have  proposed  to  her  to  walk?  The 
Pincio  is  not  the  streets,  either;  and  I, 
thank  goodness,  am  not  a  young  lady  of 
this  country.  The  young  ladies  of  this 
country  have  a  dreadfully  poky  time  of 
it,  so  far  as  I  can  learn ;  I  don't  see  why 
I  should  change  my  habits  for  them" 

"  1  am  afraid  your  habits  are  those  of 
a  flirt,"  said  Winterbourne,  gravely. 


M 


"  Of  course  they  are,"  she  cried,  giving 
him  her  little  smiling  stare  again.  "  I'm 
a  fearful,  frightful  flirt !  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  a  nice  girl  that  was  not  ?  But  I 
suppose  you  will  tell  me  now  that  I  am 
not  a  nice  girl." 

"  You're  a  very  nice  girl ;  but  I  wish 
you  would  flirt  with  me,  and  me  only," 
said  Winterbourne. 

"  Ah  !  thank  you  —  thank  you  very 
much ;  you  are  the  last  man  I  should 
think  of  flirting  with.  As  I  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  informing  you,  you  are 
too  stiff." 

100 


"  You  say  that  too  often,"  said  Winter- 
bounie. 

Daisy  gave  a  delighted  laugh.  "  If  I 
could  have  the  sweet  hope  of  making  you 
angry,  I  should  say  it  again." 

"  Don't  do  that ;  when  I  am  angry  I'm 
stiffer  than  ever.  But  if  you  won't  flirt 
with  me,  do  cease,  at  least,  to  flirt  with 
your  friend  at  the  piano ;  they  don't 
understand  that  sort  of  thing  here." 

u  I  thought  they  understood  nothing 
else  !"  exclaimed  Daisy. 

"  Not  in  young  unmarried  women." 

"  It  seems  to  me  much  more  proper  in 
young  unmarried  women  than  in  old  mar- 
ried ones,"  Daisy  declared. 

"Well,"  said  Winterbourne,  "when 
you  deal  with  natives  you  must  go  by  the 
custom  of  the  place.  Flirting  is  a  purely 
American  custom  ;  it  doesn't  exist  here. 
So  when  you  show  yourself  in  public 
with  Mr.  Giovanelli,  and  without  your 
mother — 

"  Gracious  !  poor  mother  !"  interposed 
Daisy. 

"  Though  you  may  be  flirting,  Mr. 
Giovanelli  is  not ;  he  means  something 
else." 

"  He  isn't  preaching,  at  any  rate,"  said 
101 


Daisy,  with  vivacity.  "  And  if  yon  want 
very  much  to  know,  we  are  neither  of  us 
flirting ;  we  are  too  good  friends  for  that : 
we  are  very  intimate  friends." 

"  All !"  rejoined  Winterbourne,  u  if  yon 
are  in  love  with  each  other,  it  is  another 
affair." 

She  had  allowed  him  up  to  this  point 
to  talk  so  frankly  that  he  had  no  expec- 
tation of  shocking  her  by  this  ejacula- 
tion ;  but  she  immediately  got  up,  blush- 
ing visibly,  and  leaving  him  to  exclaim 
mentally  that  little  American  flirts  were 
the  queerest  creatures  in  the  world.  "  Mr. 
Giovanelli,  at  least,"  she  said,  giving  her 
interlocutor  a  single  glance,  "  never  says 
such  very  disagreeable  things  to  me." 

Winterbourne  was  bewildered ;  he  stood 
staring.  Mr.  Giovanelli  had  finished  sing- 
ing. He  left  the  piano  and  came  over  to 
Daisy.  "  Won't  you  come  into  the  other 
room  and  have  some  tea?"  he  asked, 
bending  before  her  with  his  ornamental 
smile. 

Daisy  turned  to  Winterbourne,  begin- 
ning to  smile  again.  He  was  still  more 
perplexed,  for  this  inconsequent  smile 
made  nothing  clear,  though  it  seemed  to 
prove,  indeed,  that  she  had  a  sweetness 

102 


and  softness  that  reverted  instinctively  to 
the  pardon  of  offences.  "It  has  never 
occurred  to  Mr.  Winterbourne  to  offer 
me  any  tea,"  she  said,  with  her  little  tor- 
menting manner. 

"  I  have  offered  you  advice,"  Winter- 
bourne  rejoined. 

"  I  prefer  weak  tea !"  cried  Daisy,  and 
she  went  off  with  the  brilliant  Giovanelli. 
She  sat  with  him  in  the  adjoining  room, 
in  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening.  There  was  an  in- 
teresting performance  at  the  piano,  but 
neither  of  these  young  people  gave  heed 
to  it.  When  Daisy  came  to  take  leave  of 
Mrs.  Walker,  this  lady  conscientiously 
repaired  the  weakness  of  which  she  had 
been  guilty  at  the  moment  of  the  young 
girl's  arrival.  She  turned  her  back  straight 
upon  Miss  Miller,  and  left  her  to  depart 
with  what  grace  she  might.  Winter- 
bourne  was  standing  near  the  door;  he 
saw  it  all.  Daisy  turned  very  pale,  and 
looked  at  her  mother;  but  Mrs.  Miller 
was  humbly  unconscious  of  any  violation 
of  the  usual  social  forms.  She  appeared, 
indeed,  to  have  felt  an  incongruous  im- 
pulse to  draw  attention  to  her  own  striking 
observance  of  them.  "  Good-night,  Mrs. 


Walker,"  she  said;  "we've  had  a  beauti- 
ful evening.  You  see,  if  I  let  Daisy  come 
to  parties  without  me,  I  don't  want  her 
to  go  away  without  me."  Daisy  turned 
away,  looking  with  a  pale,  grave  face  at 
the  circle  near  the  door;  Winterbourne 
saw  that,  for  the  first  moment,  she  was 
too  much  shocked  and  puzzled  even  for 
indignation.  He  on  his  side  was  greatly 
touched. 

"  That  was  very  cruel,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Walker. 

"She  never  enters  my  drawing-room 
again  !"  replied  his  hostess. 

Since  Winterbourne  was  not  to  meet 
her  in  Mrs.  Walker's  drawing-room,  he 
went  as  often  as  possible  to  Mrs.  Miller's 
hotel.  The  ladies  were  rarely  at  home ; 
but  when  he  found  them  the  devoted 
Giovanelli  was  always  present.  Yery 
often  the  brilliant  little  Eoman  was  in 
the  drawing-room  with  Daisy  alone,  Mrs. 
Miller  being  apparently  constantly  of  the 
opinion  that  discretion  is  the  better  part 
of  surveillance.  Winterbourne  rioted,  at 
first  with  surprise,  that  Daisy  on  these 
occasions  was  never  embarrassed  or  an- 
noyed by  his  own  entrance ;  but  he  very 
presently  began  to  feel  that  she  had  no 


104 


more  surprises  for  him  ;  the  unexpected 
in  her  behavior  was  the  only  thing  to  ex- 
pect. She  showed  no  displeasure  at  her 
tete-a-tete  with  Giovanelli  being  inter- 
rupted ;  she  could  chatter  as  freshly  and 
freely  with  two  gentlemen  as  with  one; 
there  was  always,  in  her  conversation,  the 
panie  odd  mixture  of  audacity  and  pue- 
rility. Winterbourne  remarked  to  him- 
self that  if  she  was  seriously  interested  in 
Giovanelli,  it  was  very  singular  that  she 
should  not  take  more  trouble  to  preserve 
the  sanctity  of  their  interviews ;  and  he 
liked  her  the  more  for  her  innocent-look- 
ing indifference  and  her  apparently  inex- 
haustible good-humor.  He  could  hardly 
have  said  why,  but  she  seemed  to  him  a 
girl  who  would  never  be  jealous.  At 
the  risk  of  exciting  a  somewhat  derisive 
smile  on  the  reader's  part,  I  may  affirm 
that  with  regard  to  the  women  who  had 
hitherto  interested  him,  it  very  often 
seemed  to  Winterbourne  among  the  possi- 
bilities that,  given  certain  contingencies, 
he  should  be  afraid — literally  afraid — of 
these  ladies ;  he  had  a  pleasant  sense  that 
he  should  never  be  afraid  of  Daisy  Miller. 
It  must  be  added  that  this  sentiment  was 
not  altogether  flattering  to  Daisy  ;  it  was 

105 


part  of  his  conviction,  or  rather  of 
his  apprehension,  that  she  would 
prove  a  very  light  young  person. 
But   she    was    evidently    very 
much    interested    in    Giovanelli. 
She  looked  at  him  whenever  he 
spoke ;  she  was  perpetually  tell- 
ing him  to  do  this  and  to  do  that ; 
she  was  constantly  "  chaffing  "  and 
abusing  him.    She  appeared  com- 
pletely   to    have   forgotten    that 
Winterbourne  had  said  anything 
to  displease  her  at  Mrs.  Walker's 
little  party.     One  Sunday  after- 
noon, having  gone  to  St.  Peter's 
with  his  aunt,  Winterbourne  per- 
ceived Daisy  strolling  about  the 
great   church   in   company 
with  the  inevitable  Giova- 
nelli.    Presently  he  point- 
ed out  the  young  girl  and 
her  cavalier  to  Mrs.  Costel- 
lo.     This  lady  looked  at  them  a  moment 
through  her  eye-glass,  and  then  she  said, 
"  That's  what  makes  yon  so  pensive  in 
these  days,  eh  ?" 

106 


kt  I  had  not  the  least  idea  I  was  pen- 
sive," said  the  young  man. 

"  You  are  very  much  preoccupied  ;  you 
are  thinking  of  something." 

"  And  what  is  it,"  he  asked,  "  that  you 
accuse  me  of  thinking  of  T 

"  Of  that  young  lady's — Miss  Baker's, 
Miss  Chandler's — what's  her  name  ?— 
Miss  Miller's  intrigue  with  that  little  bar- 
ber's block." 

''  Do  you  call  it  an  intrigue,"  Winter- 
bourne  asked  —  "an  affair  that  goes  on 
with  such  peculiar  publicity?" 

"  That's  their  folly,"  said  Mrs.  Costello; 
"  it's  not  their  merit." 

"  No,"  rejoined  Winterbourne,  with 
something  of  that  pensiveness  to  which 
his  aunt  had  alluded.  "I  don't  believe 
that  there  is  anything  to  be  called  an 
intrigue." 

"  I  have  heard  a  dozen  people  speak  of 
it ;  they  say  she  is  quite  carried  away  by 
him." 

"  They  are  certainly  very  intimate," 
said  Winterbourne. 

Mrs.  Costello  inspected  the  young 
couple  again  with  her  optical  instrument. 
"  He  is  very  handsome.  One  easily  sees 
how  it  is.  She  thinks  him  the  most  ele- 

107 


gant  man  in  the  world — the  finest  gentle- 
man. She  has  never  seen  anything  like 
him ;  he  is  better,  even,  than  the  courier. 
It  was  the  courier,  probably,  who  intro- 
duced him ;  and  if  he  succeeds  in  marrying 
the  young  lady,  the  courier  will  come  in 
for  a  magnificent  commission." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  thinks  of  marrying 
him,"  said  Winterbourne,  "  and  I  don't 
believe  he  hopes  to  marry  her." 

"  You  may  be  very  sure  she  thinks  of 
nothing.  She  goes  on  from  day  to  day, 
from  hour  to  hour,  as  they  did  in  the 
Golden  Age.  I  can  imagine  nothing  more 
vulgar.  And  at  the  same  time,"  added 
Mrs.  Costello,  "  depend  upon  it  that  she 
may  tell  you  any  moment  that  she  is 
'  engaged.' ': 

"  I  think  that  is  more  than  Giovanelli 
expects,"  said  Winterbourne. 

"  Who  is  Giovanelli  ?" 

"  The  little  Italian.  I  have  asked  ques- 
tions about  him,  and  learned  something. 
He  is  apparently  a  perfectly  respect- 
able little  man.  I  believe  he  is,  in  a 
small  way,  a  cavaliere  avvocato.  But  he 
doesn't  move  in  what  are  called  the  first 
circles.  I  think  it  is  really  not  absolutely 
impossible  that  the  courier  introduced 


108 


him.  He  is  evidently  immensely 
charmed  with  Miss  Miller.  If 
she  thinks  him  the  finest  gen- 
tleman in  the  world,  he,  on  his 
side,  has  never  found  himself  in  per- 
sonal contact  with  such  splendor, 
such  opulence,  such  expensiveness, 
as  this  young  lady's.  And  then  she 
must  seem  to  him  wonderfully  pret- 
ty and  interesting.  I  rather  doubt 
that  he  dreams  of  marrying  her. 
That  must  appear  to  him  too  im- 
possible a  piece  of  luck.  He  has 
nothing  but  his  handsome  face  to 
offer,  and  there  is  a  substantial  Mr. 
Miller  in  that  mysterious  land  of 
dollars.  Giovanelli  knows  that  he 
hasn't  a  title  to  offer.  If  he  were 
only  a  count  or  a  marchese  !  He 


must  wonder  at  his  luck,  at  the  way  they 
have  taken  him  up." 

"  He  accounts  for  it  by  his  handsome 
face,  and  thinks  Miss  Miller  a  young  lady 
qui  se  passe  ses  fantaisies  /"  said  Mrs. 
Costello. 

"  It  is  very  true,"  Winterbourne  pur- 
sued, "  that  Daisy  and  her  mamma  have 
not  yet  risen  to  that  stage  of — what  shall 
I  call  it  ? — of  culture,  at  which  the  idea 
of  catching  a  count  or  a  marchese  begins. 
I  believe  that  they  are  intellectually  in- 
capable of  that  conception." 

•"Ah!  but  the  avvocato  can't  believe 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Costello. 

Of  the  observation  excited  by  Daisy's 
"intrigue,"  Winterbourne  gathered  that 
day  at  St.  Peter's  sufficient  evidence.  A 
dozen  of  the  American  colonists  in  Rome 
came  to  talk  with  Mrs.  Costello,  who  sat 
on  a  little  portable  stool  at  the  base  of 
one  of  the  great  pilasters.  The  vesper 
service  was  going  forward  in  splendid 
chants  and  organ -tones  in  the  adjacent 
choir,  and  meanwhile,  between  Mrs.  Cos- 
tello and  her  friends,  there  was  a  great 
deal  said  about  poor  little  Miss  Miller's 
going  really  "  too  far."  Winterbourne 
was  not  pleased  with  what  he  heard  ;  but 


112 


when,  coming  out  upon  the  great  steps 
of  the  church,  he  saw  Daisy,  who  had 
emerged  before  him,  get  into  an  open 
cab  with  her  accomplice  and  roll  away 
through  the  cynical  streets  of  Rome,  he 
could  not  deny  to  himself  that  she  was 
going  very  far  indeed.  He  felt  very 
sorry  for  her — not  exactly  that  he  be- 
lieved that  she  had  completely  lost  her 
head,  but  because  it  was  painful  to  hear 
so  much  that  was  pretty  and  undefended 
and  natural  assigned  to  a  vulgar  place 
among  the  categories  of  disorder.  He 
made  an  attempt  after  this  to  give  a  hint 
to  Mrs.  Miller.  He  met  one  day  in  the 
Corso  a  friend,  a  tourist  like  himself,  who 
had  just  come  out  of  the  Doria  Palace, 
where  he  had  been  walking  through  the 
beautiful  gallery.  His  friend  talked  for 
a  moment  about  the  superb  portrait  of 
Innocent  X.,  by  Velasquez,  which  hangs 
in  one  of  the  cabinets  of  the  palace,  and 
then  said,  "  And  in  the  same  cabinet,  by- 
the-way,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  contem- 
plating a  picture  of  a  different  kind — that 
pretty  American  girl  whom  you  pointed 
out  to  me  last  week."  In  answer  to 
Winterbourne's  inquiries,  his  friend  nar- 
rated that  the  pretty  American  girl — 


113 


prettier  than  ever  —  was  seated  with  a 
companion  in  the  secluded  nook  in  which 
the  great  papal  portrait  was  enshrined. 

"  Who  was  her  companion  ?"  asked 
Winterbourne. 

"A  little  Italian  with  a  bouquet  in  his 
button-hole.  The  girl  is  delightfully  pret- 
ty ;  but  I  thought  I  understood  from  you 
the  other  day  that  she  was  a  young  lady 
du  meitteur  monde" 

"So  she  is!"  answered  Winterbourne; 
and  having  assured  himself  that  his  in- 
formant had  seen  Daisy  and  her  compan- 
ion but  five  minutes  before,  he  jumped 
into  a  cab  and  went  to  call  on  Mrs.  Miller. 
She  was  at  home ;  but  she  apologized  to 
him  for  receiving  him  in  Daisy's  absence. 

"She's  gone  out  somewhere  with  Mr. 
Giovanelli,"  said  Mrs.  Miller.  "  She's  al- 
ways going  round  with  Mr.  Giovanelli." 

"  I  have  noticed  that  they  are  very  in- 
timate," Winterbourne  observed. 

"  Oh,  it  seems  as  if  they  couldn't  live 
without  each  other!"  said  Mrs.  Miller. 
"  Well,  he's  a  real  gentleman,  anyhow.  I 
keep  telling  Daisy  she's  engaged !" 

"  And  what  does  Daisy  say?" 

"  Oh,  she  says  she  isn't  engaged.  But 
she  might  as  well  be!"  this  impartial 


1U 


arent  resumed  ;  "  she  goes  on  as  if  she 
|  was.  But  I've  made  Mr.  Giovanelli 
promise  to  tell  me,  if  she  doesn't.  I 
should  want  to  write  to  Mr.  Miller 
about  it — shouldn't  you?" 

Winterbourne  replied  that  he  cer- 
tainly should  ;  and  the  state  of  mind 
of  Daisy's  mamma  struck  him  as  so 
unprecedented  in  the  annals  of  parent- 
al vigilance  that  he  gave  up  as  utterly 
irrelevant  the  attempt  to  place  her 
upon  her  guard. 

After  this  Daisy  was  never  at  home, 
and  Winterbourne  ceased  to  meet  her 
at  the  houses  of  their  common  acquaint- 
ances, because,  as  he  perceived,  these 
shrewd  people  had  quite  made  up  their 
minds  that  she  was  going  too  far.  They 
ceased  to  invite  her;  and  they  intimat- 
ed that  they  desired  to  express  to  ob- 
servant Europeans  the  great  truth  that, 
though  Miss  Daisy  Miller  was  a  young 
American  lady,  her  behavior  was  not 
representative  —  was  regarded  by  her 
compatriots  as  abnormal.  Winter- 
bourne  wondered  how  she  felt  about 
all  the  cold  shoulders  that  were  turned 
towards  her,  and  sometimes  it  annoyed 


him  to  suspect  that  she  did  not  feel  at 
all.  He  said  to  himself  that  she  was  too 
light  and  childish,  too  uncultivated  and 
unreasoning,  too  provincial,  to  have  re- 
flected upon  her  ostracism,  or  even  to 
have  perceived  it.  Then  at  other  mo- 
ments he  believed  that  she  carried  about 
in  her  elegant  and  irresponsible  little  or- 
ganism a  defiant,  passionate,  perfectly  ob- 
servant consciousness  of  the  impression 
she  produced.  He  asked  himself  whether 
Daisy's  defiance  carne  from  the  conscious- 
ness of  innocence,  or  from  her  being,  es- 
sentially, a  young  person  of  the  reckless 
class.  It  must  be  admitted  that  holding 
one's  self  to  a  belief  in  Daisy's  "inno- 
cence" came  to  seem  to  Winterbourne 
more  and  more  a  matter  of  fine-spun  gal- 
lantry. As  I  have  already  had  occasion 
to  relate,  he  was  angry  at  finding  him- 
self reduced  to  chopping  logic  about 
this  young  lady ;  he  was  vexed  at  his 
want  of  instinctive  certitude  as  to  how 
far  her  eccentricities  were  generic,  na- 
tional, and  how  far  they  were  personal. 
From  either  view  of  them  he  had  some- 
how missed  her,  and  now  it  was  too  late. 
She  was  "carried  away"  by  Mr.  Giova- 
nelli. 

116 


A  few  clays  after  his  brief  interview 
with  her  mother,  he  encountered  her  in 
that  beautiful  abode  of  flowering  desola- 
tion known  as  the  Palace  of  the  Caesars. 
The  early  Roman  spring  had  filled  the  air 
with  bloom  and  perfume,  and  the  rugged 
surface  of  the  Palatine  was  muffled  with 
tender  verdure.  Daisy  was  strolling  along 
the  top  of  one  of  those  great  mounds  of 
ruin  that  are  embanked  with  mossy  mar- 
ble and  paved  with  monumental  inscrip- 
tions. It  seemed  to  him  that  Rome  had 
never  been  so  lovely  as  just  then.  He 
stood  looking  off  at  the  enchanting  har- 
mony of  line  and  color  that  remotely  en- 
circles the  city,  inhaling  the  softly  humid 
odors,  and  feeling  the  freshness  of  the 
year  and  the  antiquity  of  the  place  reaf- 
firm themselves  in  mysterious  interfusion. 
It  seemed  to  him,  also,  that  Daisy  had 
never  looked  so  pretty ;  but  this  had  been 
an  observation  of  his  whenever  he  met 
her.  Giovanelli  was  at  her  side,  and  Gio- 
vanelli,  too,  wore  an  aspect  of  even  un- 
wonted brilliancy. 

"  Well,"  said  Daisy,  "  I  should  think 
you  would  be  lonesome !" 

"  Lonesome  ?"  asked  Winterbourne. 

"  You  are  always  going  round  by  your- 

117 


self.  Can't  you  get  any  one  to  walk  with 
you?" 

"  I  am  not  so  fortunate,"  said  Winter- 
bourne,  "  as  your  companion." 

Giovanelli,  from  the  first,  had  treated 
Winterbourne  with  distinguished  polite- 
ness. He  listened  with  a  deferential  air 
to  his  remarks ;  he  laughed  punctiliously 
at  his  pleasantries ;  he  seemed  disposed 
to  testify  to  his  belief  that  Winterbourne 
was  a  superior  young  man.  He  carried 
himself  in  no  degree  like  a  jealous  wooer ; 
he  had  obviously  a  great  deal  of  tact ;  he 
had  no  objection  to  your  expecting  a  lit- 
tle humility  of  him.  It  even  seemed  to 
Winterbourne  at  times  that  Giovanelli 
would  find  a  certain  mental  relief  in  be- 
ing able  to  have  a  private  understanding 
with  him — to  say  to  him,  as  an  intelligent 
man,  that,  bless  you,  he  knew  how  extraor- 
dinary was  this  young  lady,  and  didn't 
flatter  himself  with  delusive — or,  at  least, 
too  delusive  —  hopes  of  matrimony  and 
dollars.  On  this  occasion  he  strolled  away 
from  his  companion  to  pluck  a  sprig  of 
almond-blossom,  which  he  carefully  ar- 
ranged in  his  button-hole. 

"  I  know  why  you  say  that,"  said  Daisy, 
watching  Giovanelli.  "  Because  you  think 

118 


I  go  round  too  much  with  him"  And 
she  nodded  at  her  attendant. 

"  Every  one  thinks  so — if  you  care 
to  know,"  said  Winterbourne. 

"Of  course  I  care  to  know!"  Daisy 
exclaimed,  seriously.  "  But  I  don't 
believe  it.  They  are  only  pretending 
to  be  shocked.  They  don't  really  care 
a  straw  what  I  do.  Besides,  I  don't 
go  round  so  much." 

"  I  think  you  will  find  they  do  care. 
They  will  show  it  disagreeably." 

Daisy  looked  at  him  a  moment. 
"How  disagreeably?" 

"Haven't  you  noticed  anything?" 
Winterbourne  asked. 

"I  have  noticed  you.  But  I  no- 
ticed you  were  as  stiff  as  an  umbrella 
the  first  time  I  saw  you." 

"You  will  find  I  am  not  so  stiff  as 
several  others,"  said  Winterbourne, 
smiling. 

"How  shall  I  find  it?" 

"  By  going  to  see  the  others." 

"  What  will  they  do  to  me  ?" 

"  They  will  give  you  the  cold  shoul- 
der. Do  you  know  what  that  means  ?" 

Daisy  was  looking  at  him  intently; 
she  began  to  color. 


"  Do  you  mean  as  Mrs.  Walker  did  the 
other  night  ?" 

"  Exactly  !"  said  Winterbourne. 

She  looked  away  at  Giovanelli,  who 
was  decorating  himself  with  his  almond- 
blossom.  Then,  looking  back  at  Winter- 
bourne,  "  I  shouldn't  think  you  would  let 
people  be  so  unkind  !"  she  said. 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  say  some- 
thing." 

"  I  did  say  something ;"  and  he  paused 
a  moment.  "I  say  that  your  mother  tells 
me  that  she  believes  you  are  engaged." 

"Well,  she  does,"  said  Daisy,  very 
simply. 

Winterbonrne  began  to  laugh.  "And 
does  Randolph  believe  it?"  he  asked. 

"  I  guess  Randolph  doesn't  believe  any- 
thing," said  Daisy.  Randolph's  scepti- 
cism excited  Winterbonrne  to  further 
hilarity,  and  he  observed  that  Giovanelli 
was  coming  back  to  them.  Daisy,  ob- 
serving it  too,  addressed  herself  again  to 
her  countryman.  "  Since  you  have  men- 
tioned it,"  she  said,  "  I  am  engaged."  . . . 
Winterbourne  looked  at  her;  he  had 
stopped  laughing.  "You  don't  believe 

it !"  she  added. 

120 


He  was  silent  a  moment ;  and  then, 
"  Yes,  I  believe  it,"  he  said. 

"  Oh  no,  you  don't !"  she  answered. 
"  Well,  then— I  am  not !" 

The  young  girl  and  her  cicerone  were 
on  their  way  to  the  gate  of  the  enclosure, 
so  that  Winterbourne,  who  had  but  lately 
entered,  presently  took  leave  of  them. 
A  week  afterwards  he  went  to  dine  at  a 
beautiful  villa  on  the  Caelian  Hill,  and, 
on  arriving,  dismissed  his  hired  vehicle. 
The  evening  was  charming,  and  he  prom- 
ised himself  the  satisfaction  of  walking 
home  beneath  the  Arch  of  Constantine 
and  past  the  vaguely-lighted  monuments 
of  the  Forurn.  There  was  a  waning  moon 
in  the  sky,  and  her  radiance  was  not  brill- 
iant, but  she  was  veiled  in  a  thin  cloud- 
curtain  which  seemed  to  diffuse  and  equal- 
ize it.  When,  on  his  return  from  the 
villa  (it  was  eleven  o'clock),  Winterbourne 
approached  the  dusky  circle  of  the  Col- 
osseum, it  occurred  to  him,  as  a  lover  of 
the  picturesque,  that  the  interior,  in  the 
pale  moonshine,  would  be  well  worth  a 
glance.  He  turned  aside  and  walked  to 
one  of  the  empty  arches,  near  which,  as 
he  observed,  an  open  carriage  —  one  of 

the  little  Roman   street-cabs  —  was  sta- 
121 


tioned.  Then  he  passed  in,  among  the 
cavernous  shadows  of  the  great  structure, 
and  emerged  upon  the  clear  and  silent 
arena.  The  place  had  never  seemed  to 
him  more  impressive.  One-half  of  the 
gigantic  circus  was  in  deep  shade,  the 


other  was  sleeping  in  the  luminous  dusk. 
As  he  stood  there  he  began  to  murmur 
Byron's  famous  lines,  out  of  "Manfred ;" 
but  before  he  had  finished  his  quotation 
he  remembered  that  if  nocturnal  medita- 
tions in  the  Colosseum  are  recommended 
by  the  poets,  they  are  deprecated  by  the 
doctors.  The  historic  atmosphere  was 
there,  certainly ;  but  the  historic  atmos- 
phere, scientifically  considered,  was  no 
better  than  a  villanous  miasma.  Winter- 
bourne  walked  to  the  middle  of  the  arena, 
to  take  a  more  general  glance,  intending 
thereafter  to  make  a  hasty  retreat.  The 
great  cross  in  the  centre  was  covered  with 
shadow ;  it  was  only  as  he  drew  near  it  that 
he  made  it  out  distinctly.  Then  he  saw 
that  two  persons  were  stationed  upon  the 
low  steps  which  formed  its  base.  One  of 
these  was  a  woman,  seated ;  her  compan- 
ion was  standing  in  front  of  her. 

Presently  the  sound  of  the  woman's 
voice  came  to  him  distinctly  in  the  warm 
night  air.  "Well,  he  looks  at  us  as  one 
of  the  old  lions  or  tigers  may  have  looked 
at  the  Christian  martyrs!"  These  were 
the  words  he  heard,  in  the  familiar  accent 
of  Miss  Daisy  Miller. 

"Let  us  hope  he  is  not  very  hungry," 

123 


responded  the  ingenious  Giovanelli.  "  He 
will  have  to  take  me  first ;  you  will  serve 
for  dessert !" 

Winterbourne  stopped,  with  a  sort  of 
horror,  and,  it  must  be  added,  with  a  sort 
of  relief.  It  was  as  if  a  sudden  illumina- 
tion had  been  flashed  upon  the  ambiguity 
of  Daisy's  behavior,  and  the  riddle  had 
become  easy  to  read.  She  was  a  young 
lady  whom  a  gentleman  need  no  longer 
be  at  pains  to  respect.  He  stood  there 
looking  at  her — looking  at  her  compan- 
ion, and  not  reflecting  that  though  he  saw 
them  vaguely,  he  himself  must  have  been 
more  brightly  visible.  He  felt  angry 
with  himself  that  he  had  bothered  so 
much  about  the  right  way  of  regarding 
Miss  Daisy  Miller.  Then,  as  he  was  go- 
ing to  advance  again,  he  checked  himself ; 
not  from  the  fear  that  he  was  doing  her 
injustice,  but  from  the  sense  of  the  dan- 
ger of  appearing  unbecomingly  exhila- 
rated by  this  sudden  revulsion  from  cau- 
tious criticism.  He  turned  away  towards 
the  entrance  of  the  place,  but,  as  he  did 
so,  he  heard  Daisy  speak  again. 

"  Why,  it  was  Mr.  Winterbourne  !  He 
saw  me,  and  he  cuts  me !" 

What  a  clever  little  reprobate  she  was, 

124 


• 


and  how  smartly  she  played  at  injured 
innocence !  But  he  wouldn't  cut  her. 
AVinterbourne  came  forward  again,  and 
went  towards  the  great  cross.  Daisy  had 
got  up ;  Giovanelli  lifted  his  hat.  Win- 
terbourne  had  now  begun  to  think  simply 
of  the  craziness,  from  a  sanitary  point  of 
view,  of  a  delicate  young  girl  lounging 
away  the  evening  in  this  nest  of  malaria. 
What  if  she  were  a  clever  little  rep- 
robate? that  was  no  reason  for  her  dying 
of  the  perniciosa.  "  How  long  have 
you  been  here  ?"  he  asked,  almost 
brutally. 

Daisy,  lovely  in  the  flattering  moon- 
light, looked  at  him  a  moment.  Then 
— "All  the  evening,"  she  answered, 
gently.  ..."  I  never  saw  anything  so 
pretty." 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Win- 
terbourne,  "  that  you  will  not 
think  Roman  fever  very  pret- 
ty. This  is  the  way  people 
catch  it.  I  wonder,"  he  added, 
turning  to  Giovanelli,  "that 


you,  a  native  Roman,  should  countenance 
such  a  terrible  indiscretion." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  handsome  native,  "  for 
myself  I  am  not  afraid." 

" Neither  am  I — for  you!  I  am  speak- 
ing for  this  young  lady." 

Giovanelli  lifted  his  well-shaped  eye- 
brows and  showed  his  brilliant  teeth.  But 
he  took  Winterbourne's  rebuke  with  do- 
cility. "I  told  the  signorina  it  was  a 
grave  indiscretion ;  but  when  was  the  sign- 
orina ever  prudent?" 

"I  never  was  sick,  and  I  don't  mean  to 
be !"  the  signorina  declared.  "  I  don't 
look  like  much,  but  I'm  healthy !  I  was 
bound  to  see  the  Colosseum  by  moonlight ; 
I  shouldn't  have  wanted  to  go  home  with- 
out that ;  and  we  have  had  the  most  beau- 
tiful time,  haven't  we,  Mr.  Giovanelli  ?  If 
there  has  been  any  danger,  Eugenio  can 
give  me  some  pills.  He  has  got  some 
splendid  pills." 

"  I  should  advise  you,"  said  Winter- 
bourne,  "to  drive  home  as  fast  as  possi- 
ble and  take  one !" 

"What  you  say  is  very  wise,"  Giova- 
nelli rejoined.  "I  will  go  and  make  sure 
the  carriage  is  at  hand."  And  he  went 
forward  rapidly. 


126 


Daisy  followed  with  Winterbourne. 
He  kept  looking  at  her ;  she  seemed 
not  in  the  least  embarrassed.  Win- 
terbourne said  nothing ;  Daisy  chat- 
tered about  the  beauty  of  the  place. 
"  Well,  I  have  seen  the  Colosseum  by 
moonlight !"  she  exclaimed.  "That's 
one  good  thing."  Then,  noticing 
Winterbonrne's  silence,  she  asked 
him  why  he  didn't  speak.  He  made 
no  answer ;  he  only  began  to  laugh. 
They  passed  under  one  of  the  dark 
archways;  Giovanelli  was  in  front 
with  the  carriage.  Here  Daisy 
stopped  a  moment,  looking  at  the 
young  American.  "Did  you  believe 
I  was  engaged  the  other  day?"  she 
asked. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  what  I  be- 
lieved the  other  day,"  said 
Winterbourne,still  laughing.     _  ^' 

"  Well,  what  do  you  be- 
lieve now?" 

"  I  believe  that  it  makes  very  lit- 
tle difference  whether  you  are  en- 
gaged or  not!" 


He  felt  the  young  girl's  pretty  eyes 
fixed  upon  him  through  the  thick  gloom 
of  the  archway;  she  was  apparently  go- 
ing to  answer.  But  Giovanelli  hurried 
her  forward.  "  Quick  !  quick  !"  he  said  ; 
"if  we  get  in  by  midnight  we  are  quite 
safe." 

Daisy  took  her  seat  in  the  carriage,  and 
the  fortunate  Italian  placed  himself  be- 
side her.  "  Don't  forget  Eugenie's  pills !" 
said  Winterbourne,  as  he  lifted  his  hat. 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Daisy,  in  a  little 
strange  tone,  "  whether  I  have  Roman 
fever  or  not !"  Upon  this  the  cab-driver 
cracked  his  whip,  and  they  rolled  away 
over  the  desultory  patches  of  the  antique 
pavement. 

Winterbourne,  to  do  him  justice,  as  it 
were,  mentioned  to  no  one  that  he  had 
encountered  Miss  Miller,  at  midnight,  in 
the  Colosseum  with  a  gentleman  ;  but, 
nevertheless,  a  couple  of  days  later,  the 
fact  of  her  having  been  there  under  these 
circumstances  was  known  to  every  mem- 
ber of  the  little  American  circle,  and  com- 
mented accordingly.  Winterbourne  re- 
flected that  they  had  of  course  known  it 
at  the  hotel,  and  that,  after  Daisy's  return, 
there  had  been  an  exchange  of  remarks 

128 


between  the  porter  and  the  cab-driver. 
But  the  young  man  was  conscious,  at  the 
same  moment,  that  it  had  ceased  to  be  a 
matter  of  serious  regret  to  him  that  the 
little  American  flirt  should  be  "talked 
about"  by  low-minded  menials.  These 
people,  a  day  or  two  later,  had  serious  in- 
formation to  give :  the  little  American 
flirt  was  alarmingly  ill.  Winterbourne, 
when  the  rumor  came  to  him,  immedi- 
ately went  to  the  hotel  for  more  news. 
He  found  that  two  or  three  charitable 
friends  had  preceded  him,  and  that  they 
were  being  entertained  in  Mrs.  Miller's 
salon  by  Randolph. 

"  It's  going  round  at  night,"  said  Ran- 
dolph— "  that's  what  made  her  sick.  She's 
always  going  round  at  night.  I  shouldn't 
think  she'd  want  to,  it's  so  plaguy  dark. 
You  can't  see  anything  here  at  night,  ex- 
cept when  there's  a  moon  !  In  America 
there's  always  a  moon  !"  Mrs.  Miller  was 
invisible ;  she  was  now,  at  least,  giving 
her  daughter  the  advantage  of  her  society. 
It  was  evident  that  Daisy  was  dangerous- 
ly ill. 

Winterbourne  went  often  to  ask  for 
news  of  her,  and  once  he  saw  Mrs.  Miller, 
who,  though  deeply  alarmed,  was,  rather 


129 


to  his  surprise,  perfectly  composed,  and, 
as  it  appeared,  a  most  efficient  and  judi- 
cious nurse.  She  talked  a  good  deal  about 
Dr.  Davis,  but  Winterbourne  paid  her  the 
compliment  of  saying  to  himself  that  she 
was  not,  after  all,  such  a  monstrous  goose. 
"  Daisy  spoke  of  you  the  other  day,"  she 
said  to  him.  "Half  the  time  she  doesn't 
know  what  she's  saying,  but  that  time  I 
think  she  did.  She  gave  me  a  message. 
She  told  me  to  tell  you — she  told  me  to 
tell  you  that  she  never  was  engaged  to 
that  handsome  Italian.  I  am  sure  I  am 
very  glad.  Mr.  Giovanelli  hasn't  been 
near  us  since  she  was  taken  ill.  I  thought 
he  was  so  much  of  a  gentleman ;  but  I 
don't  call  that  very  polite !  A  lady  told 
me  that  he  was  afraid  I  was  angry  with 
him  for  taking  Daisy  round  at  night. 
Well,  so  I  am ;  but  I  suppose  he  knows 
I'm  a  lady.  I  would  scorn  to  scold  him. 
Anyway,  she  says  she's  not  engaged.  I 
don't  know  why  she  wanted  you  to  know ; 
but  she  said  to  me  three  times,  'Mind 
you  tell  Mr.  Winterbourne.'  And  then 
she  told  me  to  ask  if  you  remembered 
the  time  you  went  to  that  castle  in  Switz- 
erland. But  I  said  I  wouldn't  give  any 
such  messages  as  that.  Only,  if  she  is 


130 


not  engaged,  I'm  sure  I'm  glad  to  know 
it." 

But,  as  AVinterbourne  had  said,  it  mat- 
tered very  little.  A  week  after  this  the 
poor  girl  died  ;  it  had  been  a  terrible  case 
of  the  fever.  Daisy's  grave  was  in  the 
little  Protestant  cemetery,  in  an  angle  of 
the  wall  of  imperial  Rome,  beneath  the 
cypresses  and  the  thick  spring -flowers. 
Wiiiterbourne  stood  there  beside  it,  with 


a  number  of  other  mourners — a  number 
larger  than  the  scandal  excited  by  the 
young  lady's  career  would  have  led  you 
to  expect.  Near  him  stood  Giovanelli, 
who  came  nearer  still  before  Winterbourne 
turned  away.  Giovanelli  was  very  pale  : 
on  this  occasion  he  had  no  flower  in  his 
button-hole  ;  he  seemed  to  wish  to  say 
something.  At  last  he  said,  "She  was 
the  most  beautiful  young  lady  I  ever 
saw,  and  the  most  amiable ;"  and  then  he 
added  in  a  moment,  "and  she  was  the 
most  innocent." 

Winterbourne  looked  at  him,  and  pres- 
ently repeated  his  wrords,  "  And  the  most 
innocent  ?" 

"  The  most  innocent !" 

Winterbourne  felt  sore  and  angry. 
"Why  the  devil,"  he  asked,  "did  you 
take  her  to  that  fatal  place  ?" 

Mr.  Giovanelli's  urbanity  was  appar- 
ently imperturbable.  He  looked  on  the 
ground  a  moment,  and  then  he  said,  "  For 
myself  I  had  no  fear ;  and  she  wanted  to 
go." 

"  That  was  no  reason  !"  Winterbourne 
declared. 

The  subtle  Roman  again  dropped  his 
eyes.  "If  she  had  lived,  I  should  have 

132 


got  nothing.  She  would  never  have  mar- 
ried me,  I  am  sure." 

"  She  would  never  have  married  you  ?" 

"  For  a  moment  I  hoped  so.  But  no. 
I  am  sure." 

Winterbourne  listened  to  him :  he  stood 
staring  at  the  raw  protuberance  among 
the  April  daisies.  When  ho  turned  away 
again,  Mr.  Giovanelli  with  his  light,  slow 
step,  had  retired. 

Winterbourne  almost  immediately  left 
Rome ;  but  the  following  summer  he 
again  met  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Costello,  at  Ve- 
vay.  Mrs.  Costello  was  fond  of  Yevay. 
In  the  interval  Winterbourne  had  often 
thought  of  Daisy  Miller  and  her  mystify- 
ing manners.  One  day  he  spoke  of  her  to 
his  aunt — said  it  was  on  his  conscience 
that  he  had  done  her  injustice. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs. 
Costello.  "  How  did  your  injustice  affect 
her?" 

"She  sent  me  a  message  before  her 
death  which  I  didn't  understand  at  the 
time ;  but  I  have  understood  it  since.  She 
would  have  appreciated  one's  esteem." 

"Is  that  a  modest  way,"  asked  Mrs. 
Costello,  "  of  saying  that  she  would  have 
reciprocated  one's  affection  ?" 


Winterbourne  offered  no  answer  to  this 
question  ;  but  he  presently  said,  "  You 
were  right  in  that  remark  that  you  made 
last  summer.  I  was  booked  to  make  a 
mistake.  I  have  lived  too  long  in  foreign 
parts." 

Nevertheless,  he  went  back  to  live  at 
Geneva,  whence  there  continue  to  come 
the  most  contradictory  accounts  of  his 
motives  of  sojourn :  a  report  that  he  is 
"studying"  hard — an  intimation  that  he 
is  much  interested  in  a  very  clever  foreign 
lady. 


Jlart 


,OUR  years 
ago  —  in 

1S74  —  two  young 
Englishmen  Lad  oc- 
casion to  go  to  the 
United  States.  They 
crossed  the  ocean  at 
midsummer,  and,  ar- 
riving in  New  York  on  the  first  day 
of  August,  were  much  struck  with 
the  fervid  temperature  of  that  city. 
Disembarking  upon  the  wharf,  they 
climbed  into  one  of  those  huge  high- 
hung  coaches  which  convey  passen- 
gers to  the  hotels,  and,  with  a  great 
deal  of  bouncing  and  bumping,  took 
their  course  through  Broadway.  The 
midsummer  aspect  of  New 
York  is  not,  perhaps,  the 
most  favorable  one  ;  still,  it 
is  not  without  its  pictu- 
resque and  even  brilliant 
side.  Nothing  could  well 
resemble  less  a  typical  Eng- 
lish street  than  the  intermi- 
nable avenue,  rich  in  incon- 
gruities, through  which  our 
two  travellers  advanced — 


looking  out  on  each  side  of  them  at  the 
comfortable  animation  of  the  sidewalks, 
the  high-colored,  heterogeneous  archi- 
tecture, the  huge,  white  marble  fa9ades 
glittering  in  the  strong,  crude  light,  and 
bedizened  with  gilded  lettering,  the  mul- 
tifarious awnings,  banners,  and  streamers, 
the  extraordinary  number  of  omnibuses, 
horse-cars,  and  other  democratic  vehicles, 
the  venders  of  cooling  fluids,  the  white 
trousers  and  big  straw-hats  of  the  police- 
men, the  tripping  gait  of  the  modish  young 
persons  on  the  pavement,  the  general 
brightness,  newness,  juvenility,  both  of 
people  and  things.  The  young  men  had 
exchanged  few  observations  ;  but  in  cross- 
ing Union  Square,  in  front  of  the  monu- 
ment to  Washington — in  the  very  shadow, 
indeed,  projected  by  the  image  of  the 
pater  patrioe — one  of  them  remarked  to 
the  other,  "It  seems  a  rum-looking  place." 

"Ah,  very  odd,  very  odd,"  said  the 
other,  who  was  the  clever  man  of  the 
two. 

"  Pity  it's  so  beastly  hot,"  resumed  the 
first  speaker,  after  a  pause. 

"  You  know  we  are  in  a  low  latitude," 
said  his  friend. 

"  I  dare  say,"  remarked  the  other. 

138 


"  I  wonder,"  said  the  second 
speaker,  presently,  "if  they  can 
give  one  a  bath  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  not,"  rejoined  the 
other. 

"  Oh,  I  say !"  cried  his  com- 
rade. 

This  animated  discussion  was  checked 
by  their  arrival  at  the  hotel,  which  had 
been  recommended  to  them  by  an  Amer- 
ican gentleman  whose  acquaintance  they 
made — with  whom,  indeed,  they  became 
very  intimate — on  the  steamer,  and  who 
had  proposed  to  accompany  them  to  the 
inn  and  introduce  them,  in  a  friendly 
way,  to  the  proprietor.  This  plan,  how- 
ever, had  been  defeated  by  their  friend's 
finding  that  his  "partner"  was  await- 
ing him  on  the  wharf,  and  that  his 
commercial  associate  desired  him  in- 
stantly to  come  and  give  his  attention 
to  certain  telegrams  received  from 
St.  Louis.  But  the  two  English- 
men, with  nothing  but  their  na- 


tional  prestige  and  personal  graces  to 
recommend  them,  were  very  well  re- 
ceived at  the  hotel,  which  had  an  air  of 
capacious  hospitality.  They  found  that 
a  bath  was  not  unattainable,  and  were  in- 
deed struck  with  the  facilities  for  pro- 
longed and  reiterated  immersion  with 
which  their  apartment  was  supplied.  Af- 
ter bathing  a  good  deal — more,  indeed, 
than  they  had  ever  done  before  on  a  sin- 
gle occasion — they  made  their  way  into 
the  dining-room  of  the  hotel,  which  was 
a  spacious  restaurant,  with  a  fountain  in 
the  middle,  a  great  many  tall  plants  in 
ornamental  tubs,  and  an  array  of  French 
waiters.  The  first  dinner  on  land  after  a 
sea-voyage  is,  under  any  circumstances,  a 
delightful  occasion,  and  there  was  some- 
thing particularly  agreeable  in  the  circum- 
stances in  which  our  young  Englishmen 
found  themselves.  They  were  extremely 
good-natured  young  men ;  they  were  more 
ol)servant  than  they  appeared ;  in  a  sort 
of  inarticulate,  accidentally  dissimulative 
fashion,  they  were  highly  appreciative. 
This  was,  perhaps,  especially  the  case  with 
the  elder,  who  was  also,  as  I  have  said, 
the  man  of  talent.  They  sat  down  at  a 
little  table,  which  was  a  very  different 


140 


affair  from  the  great  clattering  seesaw  in 
the  saloon  of  the  steamer.  The  wide 
doors  and  windows  of  the  restaurant  stood 
open,  beneath  large  awnings,  to  a  wide 
pavement,  where  there  were  other  plants 
in  tubs  and  rows  of  spreading  trees,  and 
beyond  which  there  was  a  large,  shady 
square,  without  any  palings,  and  with  mar- 
ble-paved walks.  And  above  the  vivid 
verdure  rose  other  fagades  of  white  mar- 
ble and  of  pale  chocolate-colored  stone, 
squaring  themselves  against  the  deep  blue 
sky.  Here,  outside,  in  the  light  and  the 
shade  and  the  heat,  there  was  a  great 
tinkling  of  the  bells  of  innumerable  street- 
cars, and  a  constant  strolling  and  shuffling 
and  rustling  of  many  pedestrians,  a  large 
proportion  of  whom  were  young  women 
in  Pompadour-looking  dresses.  Within, 
the  place  was  cool  and  vaguely  lighted, 
with  the  plash  of  water,  the  odor  of 
flowers,  and  the  flitting  of  French  wait- 
ers, as  I  have  said,  upon  soundless  car- 
pets. 

"  It's  rather  like  Paris,  you  know,"  said 
the  younger  of  our  two  travellers. 

"It's  like  Paris — only  more  so,"  his 
companion  rejoined. 

"I  suppose  it's  the  French  waiters," 


141 


said  the  first  speaker.     "  Why  don't  they 
have  French  waiters  in  London  ?" 

"Fancy  a  French  waiter  at  a  club,"  said 
his  friend. 

The  young  Englishman  stared  a  little, 
as  if  he  could  not  fancy  it.  "  In  Paris 
I'm  very  apt  to  dine  at  a  place  where 
there's  an  English  waiter.  Don't  you 
know  what's  -  his  -  name's,  close  to  the 
thingumbob?  They  always  set  an  Eng- 
lish waiter  at  me.  I  suppose  they  think 
I  can't  speak  French." 

"  Well,  you  can't."     And  the  elder  of 
the  young  Englishmen  unfolded  his 
napkin. 

His  companion  took  no  notice  what- 
ever of  this  declaration.  "I  say,"  he 
resumed,  in  a  moment,  "  I  suppose  we 
must  learn  to  speak  American.  I 
suppose  we  must  take  les- 
sons.' 

t   understand 
them,"  said  the  clever  man. 


"  What  the  deuce  is  he  saying  ?"  asked 
his  comrade,  appealing  from  the  French 
waiter. 

"  He  is  recommending  some  soft-shell 
crabs,"  said  the  clever  man. 

And  so,  in  desultory  observation  of  the 
idiosyncrasies  of  the  new  society  in  which 
they  found  themselves,  the  young  English- 
men proceeded  to  dine — going  in  largely, 
as  the  phrase  is,  for  cooling  draughts  and 
dishes,  of  which  their  attendant  offered 
them  a  very  long  list.  After  dinner  they 
went  out  and  slowly  walked  about  the 
neighboring  streets.  The  early  dusk  of 
waning  summer  was  coming  on,  but  the 
heat  was  still  very  great.  The  pavements 
were  hot  even  to  the  stout  boot  soles  of  the 
British  travellers,  and  the  trees  along  the 
curb-stone  emitted  strange  exotic  odors. 
The  young  men  wandered  through  the  ad- 
joining square — that  queer  place  without 
palings,  and  with  marble  walks  arranged 
in  black  and  white  lozenges.  There  were 
a  great  many  benches,  crowded  with  shab- 
by-looking people,  and  the  travellers  re- 
marked, very  justly,  that  it  was  not  much 
like  Belgrave  Square.  On  one  side  was 
an  enormous  hotel,  lifting  up  into  the 
hot  darkness  an  immense  array  of  open, 

143 


brightly  lighted  windows.  At  the  base 
of  this  populous  structure  was  an  eternal 
jangle  of  horse-cars,  and  all  round  it,  in 
the  upper  dusk,  was  a  sinister  hum  of 
mosquitoes.  The  ground-floor  of  the  hotel 
seemed  to  be  a  huge  transparent  cage, 
flinging  a  wide  glare  of  gaslight  into  the 
street,  of  which  it  formed  a  sort  of  public 
adjunct,  absorbing  and  emitting  the  pass- 
ers-by promiscuously.  The  young  Eng- 
lishmen went  in  with  every  one  else, 
from  curiosity,  and  saw  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred men  sitting  on  divans  along  a  great 
marble -paved  corridor,  with  their  legs 
stretched  out,  together  with  several  dozen 
more  standing  in  a  queue,  as  at  the  ticket- 
office  of  a  railway  station,  before  a  brill- 
iantly illuminated  counter  of  vast  extent. 
These  latter  persons,  who  carried  port- 
manteaus in  their  hand,  had  a  dejected, 
exhausted  look ;  their  garments  were  not 
very  fresh,  and  they  seemed  to  be  ren- 
dering some  mysterious  tribute  to  a  mag- 
nificent young  man  with  a  waxed  mus- 
tache, and  a  shirt-front  adorned  with 
diamond  buttons,  who  every  now  and  then 
dropped  an  absent  glance  over  their  mul- 
titudinous patience.  They  were  American 
citizens  doing  homage  to  a  hotel  clerk. 

144 


"  I'm  glad  lie  didn't  tell  us  to  go  there/5 
said  one  of  our  Englishmen,  alluding  to 
their  friend  on  the  steamer,  who  had  told 
them  so  many  things.  They  walked  up 
Fifth  Avenue,  where,  for  instance,  he  had 
told  them  that  all  the  first  families  lived. 
But  the  first  families  were  out  of  town, 
and  our  young  travellers  had  only  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  some  of  the  second 
— or,  perhaps,  even  the  third — taking  the 
evening  air  upon  balconies  and  high 
flights  of  door-steps,  in  the  streets  which 
radiate  from  the  more  ornamental  thor- 
oughfare. They  went  a  little  way  down 
one  of  these  side  streets,  and  they  saw 
young  ladies  in  white  dresses  —  charm- 
ing-looking persons — seated  in  graceful 
attitudes  on  the  chocolate-colored  steps. 
In  one  or  two  places  these  young  ladies 
were  conversing  across  the  street  with 
other  young  ladies  seated  in  similar  post- 
ures and  costumes  in  front  of  the  opposite 
houses,  and  in  the  warm  night  air  their 
colloquial  tones  sounded  strange  in  the  ears 
of  the  young  Englishmen. 
One  of  our  friends,  never- 
theless— the  younger  one 
— intimated  that  he  felt  a 
disposition  to 


interrupt  a  few  of  these  soft  familiar- 
ities; but  his  companion  observed,  per- 
tinently enough,  that  he  had  better  be 
careful.  "We  must  not  begin  with  mak- 
ing mistakes,"  said  his  companion. 

"  But  he  told  us,  you  know — he  told 
us,"  urged  the  young  man,  alluding  again 
to  the  friend  on  the  steamer. 

"Never  mind  what  he  told  us!"  an- 
swered his  comrade,  who,  if  he  had  greater 
talents,  was  also  apparently  more  of  a 
moralist. 

By  bedtime — in  their  impatience  to 
taste  of  a  terrestrial  couch  again,  our  sea- 
farers went  to  bed  early — it  was  still  in- 
sufferably hot,  and  the  buzz  of  the  mosqui- 
toes at  the  open  windows  might  have 
passed  for  an  audible  crepitation  of  the 
temperature.  "  We  can't  stand  this,  you 
know,"  the  young  Englishmen  said  to 
each  other;  and  they  tossed  about  all 
night  more  boisterously  than  they  had 
tossed  upon  the  Atlantic  billows.  On 
the  morrow  their  first  thought  was  that 
they  would  re-embark  that  day  for  Eng- 
land ;  and  then  it  occurred  to  them  that 
they  might  find  an  asylum  nearer  at  hand. 
The  cave  of  ^Eolus  became  their  ideal  of 
comfort,  and  they  wondered  where  the 

146 


Americans  went  when  they  wished  to 
cool  off.  They  had  not  the  least  idea, 
and  they  determined  to  apply  for  infor- 
mation to  Mr.  J.  L.  Westgate.  This  was 
the  name  inscribed  in  a  bold  hand  on  the 
back  of  a  letter  carefully  preserved  in  the 
pocket-book  of  our  junior  traveller.  Be- 
neath the  address,  in  the  left-hand  corner 
of  the  envelope,  were  the  words,  "  Intro- 
ducing Lord  Lambeth  and  Percy  Beau- 
mont, Esq."  The  letter  had  been  given 
to  the  two  Englishmen  by  a  good  friend 
of  theirs  in  London,  who  had  been  in 
America  two  years  previously,  and  had 
singled  out  Mr.  J.  L.  Westgate  from  the 
many  friends  he  had  left  there  as  the 
consignee,  as  it  were,  of  his  compatriots.- 
"He  is  a  capital  fellow,"  the  Englishman 
in  London  had  said,  "  and  he  has  got  an 
awfully  pretty  wife.  He's  tremendously 
hospitable — he  will  do  everything  in  the 
world  for  you ;  and  as  he  knows  every 
one  over  there,  it  is  quite  needless  I  should 
give  you  any  other  introduction.  He 
will  make  you  see  every  one ;  trust  to 
him  for  putting  you  into  circulation. 
He  has  got  a  tremendously  pretty  wife." 
It  was  natural  that  in  the  hour  of  trib- 
ulation Lord  Lambeth  and  Mr.  Percy 


Beaumont  should  have  bethought  them- 
selves of  a  gentleman  whose  attractions 
had  been  thus  vividly  depicted  —  all  the 
more  so  that  he  lived  in  Fifth  Avenue, 
and  that  Fifth  Avenue,  as  they  had  ascer- 
tained the  night  before,  was  contiguous  to 
their  hotel.  "  Ten  to  one  he'll  be  out  of 
town,"  said  Percy  Beaumont ;  "  but  we  can 
at  least  find  out  where  he  has  gone,  and 
we  can  immediately  start  in  pursuit.  He 
can't  possibly  have  gone  to  a  hotter  place, 
you  know." 

"  Oh,  there's  only  one  hotter  place," 
said  Lord  Lambeth,  "  and  I  hope  he  hasn't 
gone  there." 

They  strolled  along  the  shady  side  of 
the  street  to  the  number  indicated  upon 
the  precious  letter.  The  house  presented 
an  imposing  chocolate -colored  expanse, 
relieved  by  facings  and  window  cornices 
of  florid  sculpture,  and  by  a  couple  of 
dusty  rose-trees  which  clambered  over 
the  balconies  and  the  portico.  This  last- 
mentioned  feature  was  approached  by  a 
monumental  flight  of  steps. 

"Kather  better  than  a  London  house," 
said  Lord  Lambeth,  looking  down  from 
this  altitude,  after  they  had  rung  the 
bell. 

148 


k>  It  depends  upon  what  London  house 
you  mean,"  replied  his  companion.  "You 
have  a  tremendous  chance  to  get  wet  be- 
tween the  house  door  and  your  carriage." 

••  Well,"  said  Lord  Lambeth,  glancing 
at  the  burning  heavens,  "I  'guess'  it 
doesn't  rain  so  much  here!" 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  long  negro 
in  a  white  jacket,  who  grinned  familiarly 
when  Lord  Lambeth  asked  for  Mr.  West- 
gate. 

"  He  ain't  at  home,  sah ; 
he's  down  town  at  his  o'fice." 

"Oh,  at  his  office?"  said 
the  visitor.  "  And  when  will 
he  be  at  home  ?" 

"  Well,  sah,  when  he  goes 
out  dis  way  in  de  mo'ning,  he 
ain't  liable  to  come  home  all 
day." 

This  wras  discouraging;  but  the  ad-' 
dress  of  Mr.  Westgate's  office  was  freely 
imparted  by  the  intelligent  black,  and 
was  taken  down  by  Percy  Beaumont  in 
his  pocket-book.  The  two  gentlemen 
then  returned,  languidly,  to  their  hotel, 
and  sent  for  a  hackney-coach,  and  in  this 
commodious  vehicle  they  rolled  comfort- 
ably down  -  town.  They  measured  the 


whole  length  of  Broadway  again,  and 
found  it  a  path  of  fire ;  and  then,  deflect- 
ing to  the  left,  they  were  deposited  by 
their  conductor  before  a  fresh,  light,  or- 
namental structure,  ten  stories  high,  in  a 
street  crowded  with  keen -faced,  light- 
limbed  young  men,  who  were  running 
about  very  quickly,  and  stopping  each 
other  eagerly  at  corners  and  in  doorways. 
Passing  into  this  brilliant  building,  they 
were  introduced  by  one  of  the  keen-faced 
young  men — he  was  a  charming  fellow, 
in  wonderful  cream-colored  garments  and 
a  hat  with  a  blue  ribbon,  who  had  evi- 
dently perceived  them  to  be  aliens  and 
helpless — to  a  very  snug  hydraulic  eleva- 
tor, in  which  they  took  their  place  with 
many  other  persons,  and  which,  shooting 
upward  in  its  vertical  socket,  presently 
projected  them  into  the  seventh  horizon- 
tal compartment  of  the  edifice.  Here, 
after  brief  delay,  they  found  themselves 
face  to  face  with  the  friend  of  their 
friend  in  London.  His  office  was  corn- 
posed  of  several  different  rooms,  and  they 
waited  very  silently  in  one  of  them  after 
they  had  sent  in  their  letter  and  their 
cards.  The  letter  was  not  one  which  it 
would  take  Mr.  "Westgate  very  long  to 

150 


read,  but  he  came  out  to  speak  to  them 
more  instantly  than  they  could  have  ex- 
pected ;  he  had  evidently  jumped  up  from 
his  work.  He  was  a  tall,  lean  personage, 
and  was  dressed  all  in  fresh  white  linen ; 
he  had  a  thin,  sharp,  familiar  face,  with  an 
expression  that  was  at  one  and  the  same 
time  sociable  and  business-like,  a  quick,  in- 
telligent eye,  and  a  large  brown  mustache, 
which  concealed  his  mouth  and  made  his 
chin  beneath  it  look  small.  Lord  Lambeth 
thought  he  looked  tremendously  clever. 

"How  do  you  do,  Lord  Lambeth — how 
do  you  do,  sir?"  he  said,  holding  the 
open  letter  in  his  hand.  "  I'm  very  glad 
to  see  you ;  I  hope  you're  very  well. 
You  had  better  come  in  here;  I  think 
it's  cooler,"  and  he  led  the  way  into  an- 
other room,  where  there  were  law-books 
and  papers,  and  windows  wide  open  be- 
neath striped  awning.  Just  opposite  one 
of  the  windows,  on  a  line  with  his  eyes, 
Lord  Lambeth  observed  the  weather-vane 
of  a  church  steeple.  The  uproar  of  the 
street  sounded  infinitely  far  below,  and 
Lord  Lambeth  felt  very  high  in  the  air. 
"I  say  it's  cooler,"  pursued  their  host, 
"but  everything  is  relative.  How  do 
you  stand  the  heat?" 


151 


"I  can't  say  we  like  it,"  said  Lord 
Lambeth ;  "  but  Beaumont  likes  it  bet- 
ter than  I." 

"  Well,  it  won't  last,"  Mr.  Westgate 
very  cheerfully  declared  ;  "  nothing  un- 
pleasant lasts  over  here.  It  was  very  hot 
when  Captain  Littledale  was  here;  he 
did  nothing  but  drink  sherry-cobblers. 
He  expresses  some  doubt  in  his  letter 
whether  I  will  remember  him  —  as  if  I 
didn't  remember  making  six  sherry-cob- 
blers for  him  one  day  in  about  twenty 
minutes.  I  hope  you  left  him  well,  two 
years  having  elasped  since  then." 

"Oh  yes,  he's  all  right,"  said  Lord 
Lambeth. 

"I  am  always  very  glad  to  see  your 
countrymen,"  Mr.  Westgate  pursued. 
"I  thought  it  would  be  time  some  of 
you  should  be  coming  along.  A  friend 
of  mine  was  sayingvto  me  only  a  day  or 
two  ago,  '  It's  time  for  the  watermelons 
and  the  Englishmen.'" 

"The  Englishmen  and  the  water- 
melons just  now  are  about  the  same 
thing,"  Percy  Beaumont  said,  wiping 

his   dripping 
forehead. 
"Ah,  well, 


we'll  put  you  on  ice,  as  we  do  the  mel- 
ons. You  must  go  down  to  Newport." 

"  We'll  go  anywhere,"  said  Lord  Lam- 
beth. 

"  Yes,  you  want  to  go  to  Newport ; 
that's  what  you  want  to  do,"  Mr.  West- 
gate  affirmed.  "  But  let's  see — when  did 
you  get  here  ?" 

"Only  yesterday,"  said  Percy  Beau- 
mont. 

"  Ah,  yes,  by  the  Ifaissia.  Where  are 
you  staying?" 

"  At  the  Hanover,  I  think  they  call  it." 

"Pretty  comfortable?"  inquired  Mr. 
Westgate. 

"  It  seems  a  capital  place,  but  I  can't 
say  we  like  the  gnats,"  said  Lord  Lam- 
beth. 

Mr.  Westgate  stared  and  laughed.  "Oh 
no,  of  course  you  don't  like  the  gnats. 
We  shall  expect  you  to  like  a  good  many 
things  over  here,  but  we  sha'n't  insist 
upon  your  liking  the  gnats ;  though  cer- 
tainly you'll  admit  that,  as  gnats,  they 
are  fine,  eh  ?  But  you  oughtn't  to  re- 
main in  the  city." 

"  So  we  think,"  said  Lord  Lambeth. 
"  If  you  would  kindly  suggest  some- 
thing—" 

153 


"  Suggest  something,  my  dear  sir  ?" 
and  Mr.  Westgate  looked  at  him,  narrow- 
ing his  eyelids.  "  Open  your  mouth  and 
shut  your  eyes !  Leave  it  to  me,  and  I'll 
put  you  through.  It's  a  matter  of  na- 
tional pride  with  me  that  all  Englishmen 
should  have  a  good  time ;  and  as  I  have 
had  considerable  practice,  I  have  learned 
to  minister  to  their  wants.  I  find  they 
generally  want  the  right  thing.  So  just 
please  to  consider  yourselves  my  proper- 
ty ;  and  if  any  one  should  try  to  appropri- 
ate you,  please  to  say, 'Hands  off ;  too  late 
for  the  market.'  But  let's  see,"  continued 
,  the  American,  in  his  slow,  humor- 
ous voice,  with  a  distinctness  of  ut- 
terance which  appeared  to  his  visit- 
ors to  be  a  part  of  a  humor- 
ous intention — a  strangely 
;!  leisurely  speculative  voice 
for  a  man  evidently  so  busy 
and,  as  they  felt,  so  professional— 
"  let's  see ;  are  you  going  to  make 
something  of  a  stay,  Lord  Lam- 
beth?" 

"  Oh  dear  no,"  said  the  young 


Englishman ;  "  my  cousin  was  coming 
over  on  some  business,  so  I  just  came 
across,  at  an  hour's  notice,  for  the  lark." 

"Is  it  your  first  visit  to  the  United 
States?"  " 

"Oh  dear  yes." 

"  I  was  obliged  to  come  on  some  busi- 
ness," said  Percy  Beaumont,  "  and  I 
brought  Lambeth  along." 

"  And  you  have  been  here  before,  sir  ?" 

"  Never — never." 

4.'I  thought,  from  your  referring  to 
business — "  said  Mr.  Westgate. 

"  Oh,  you  see  I'm  by 
way  of  being  a  barris- 
ter," Percy  Beaumont 
answered.  "I  know 
some  people  that  think 
of  bringing  a  suit  against 
one  of  your  railways, 
and  they  asked  me  to  come  over 
and  take  measures  accordingly." 

Mr.  Westgate  gave  one  of  his 
slow,  keen  looks  again.  "What's 
your  railroad?"  he  asked. 

"  The  Tennessee  Central." 

The  American  tilted  back  his 
chair  a  little,  and  poised  it  an  in- 
stant. "  Well,  I'm  sorry  you  want 

155 


to  attack  one  of  our  institutions,"  lie  said, 
smiling.  "  But  I  guess  you  had  better  en- 
joy yourself  first!" 

"I'm  certainly  rather  afraid  I  can't 
work  in  this  weather,"  the  young  barris- 
ter confessed. 

"  Leave  that  to  the  natives,"  said  Mr. 
Westgate.  "Leave  the  Tennessee  Cen- 
tral to  me,  Mr.  Beaumont.  Some  day 
we'll  talk  it  over,  and  I  guess  I  can  make 
it  square.  But  I  didn't  know  you  Eng- 
lishmen ever  did  any  work,  in  the  upper 
classes." 

"  Oh,  we  do  a  lot  of  work ;  don't  we, 
Lambeth  ?"  asked  Percy  Beaumont. 

"  I  must  certainly  be  at  home  by  the 
19th  of  September,"  said  the  younger 
Englishman,  irrelevantly  but  gently. 

"  For  the  shooting,  eh  ? ,  or  is  it  the 
hunting,  or  the  fishing?"  inquired  his 
entertainer. 

"Oh,  I  must  be  in  Scotland," 
said  Lord  Lambeth,  blushing  a 
little. 

"  Well,  then,"  rejoined  Mr.  West- 
gate,  "  you  had  better  amuse  your- 
self first,  also.  You  must  go  down 
and  see  Mrs.  Westgate." 

"  We  should  be  so  happy,  if  you 


would  kindly  tell  us  the  train,"  said  Percy 
Beaumont. 

"  It  isn't  a  train — it's  a  boat." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  And  what  is  the  name  of 
— a — the — a — town  ?" 

"  It  isn't  a  town,"  said  Mr.  Westgate, 
laughing.  "It's  a — well,  what  shall  I  call 
it  ?  It's  a  watering-place.  In  short,  it's 
Newport.  You'll  see  what  it  is.  It's 
cool ;  that's  the  principal  thing.  You 
will  greatly  oblige  me  by  going  down 
there  and  putting  yourself  into  the  hands 
of  Mrs.  Westgate.  It  isn't  perhaps  for 
me  to  say  it,  but  you  couldn't  be  in  bet- 
ter hands.  Also  in  those  of  her  sister, 
who  is  staying  with  her.  She  is  very 
fond  of  Englishmen.  She  thinks  there 
is  nothing  like  them." 

"Mrs.  Westgate  or  —  a — her  sister?" 
asked  Percy  Beaumont,  modestly,  yet  in 
the  tone  of  an  inquiring  traveller. 

"  Oh,  I  mean  my  wife,"  said  Mr.  West- 
gate.  "I  don't  suppose  my  sister-in-law 
knows  much  about  them.  She  has  always 
led  a  very  quiet  life ;  she  has  lived  in 
Boston." 

Percy  Beaumont  listened  with  interest. 
"That,  I  believe,"  he  said,  "is  the  most 
— a — intellectual  town?" 

157 


"I  believe  it  is  very  intellectual.  I 
don't  go  there  much,"  responded  his  host. 

"I  say,  we  ought  to  go  there,"  said 
Lord  Lambeth  to  his  companion. 

"Oh,  Lord  Lambeth,  wait  till  the 
great  heat  is  over,"  Mr.  Westgate  inter- 
posed. "Boston  in  this  weather  would 
be  very  trying;  it's  not  the  temperature 
for  intellectual  exertion.  At  Boston,  you 
know,  you  have  to  pass  an  examination 
at  the  city  limits ;  and  when  you  come 
away  they  give  you  a  kind  of  degree." 

Lord  Lambeth  stared,  blushing  a  little  ; 
and  Percy  Beaumont  stared  a  little  also 
— but  only  with  his  fine  natural  complex- 
ion— glancing  aside  after  a  moment  to 
see  that  his  companion  was  not  looking 
too  credulous,  for  he  had  heard  a  great 
deal  of  American  humor.  "  I  dare  say  it 
is  very  jolly,"  said  the  younger  gentle- 
man. 

"  I  dare  say  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Westgate. 
"  Only  I  must  impress  upon  you  that  at 
present — to-morrow  morning,  at  an  early 
hour — you  will  be  expected  at  Newport. 
We  have  a  house  there ;  half  the  people 
of  New  York  go  there  for  the  summer.  I 
am  not  sure  that  at  this  very  moment  my 
wife  can  take  you  in ;  she  has  got  a  lot 


158 


of  people  staying  with  her ;  I  don't  know 
who  they  all  are ;  only  she  may  have  no 
room.  But  you  can  begin  with  the  hotel, 
and  meanwhile  you  can  live  at  my  house. 
In  that  way — simply  sleeping  at  the  hotel 
—you  will  tind  it  tolerable.  For  the  rest, 
you  must  make  yourself  at  home  at  my 
place.  You  mustn't  be  shy,  you  know ; 
if  you  are  only  here  for  a  month,  that 
will  be  a  great  waste  of  time.  Mrs. 
Westgate  won't  neglect  you,  and  you 
had  better  not  try  to  resist  her.  I 
know  something  about  that.  I  ex- 
pect you'll  find  some  pretty  girls  on 
the  premises.  I  shall  write  to  my 
wife  by  this  afternoon's  mail,  and 
to-morrow  morning  she  and  Miss 
Alden  will  look  out  for  you.  Just 
walk  right  in  and  make  yourself 
comfortable.  Your  steamer  leaves 
from  this  part  of  the  city,  and  I 
will  immediately  send  out  and  get 
you  a  cabin.  Then,  at  half-past 
four  o'clock,  just  call  for  me 
here,  and  I  will  go  with  you  and 
put  you  on  board.  It's  a  big 
boat ;  you  might  get  lost.  A  j 
few  days  hence,  at  the  end  of 
the  week,  I  will  come  down 


to  Newport,  and  see  how  yon  are  getting 
on." 

The  two  young  Englishmen  inaugu- 
rated the  policy  of  not  resisting  Mrs. 
Westgate  by  submitting,  with  great  do- 
cility and  thankfulness,  to  her  husband. 
He  was  evidently  a  very  good  fellow, 
and  he  made  an  impression  upon  his  vis- 
itors; his  hospitality  seemed  to  recom- 
mend itself  consciously — with  a  friendly 
wink,  as  it  were  —  as  if  it  hinted,  judi- 
ciously, that  you  could  not  possibly  make 
a  better  bargain.  Lord  Lambeth  and  his 
cousin  left  their  entertainer  to  his  labors 
and  returned  to  their  hotel,  where  they 
spent  three  or  four  hours  in  their  respec- 
tive shower-baths.  Percy  Beaumont  had 
suggested  that  they  ought  to  see  some- 
thing of  the  town  ;  but  "  Oh,  d — n  the 
town !"  his  noble  kinsman  had  rejoined. 
They  returned  to  Mr.  West-gate's  office 
in  a  carriage,  with  their  luggage,  very 
punctually;  but  it  must  be  reluctantly 
recorded  that,  this  time,  he  kept  them 
waiting  so  long  that  they  felt  themselves 
missing  the  steamer,  and  were  deterred 
only  by  an  amiable  modesty  from  dis- 
pensing with  his  attendance,  and  starting 
on  a  hasty  scramble  to  the  wharf.  But 


when  at  last  he  appeared,  and  the  car- 
riage plunged  into  the  purlieus  of  Broad- 
way, they  jolted  and  jostled  to  such  good 
purpose  that  they  reached  the  huge  white 
vessel  while  the  bell  for  departure  was 
still  ringing,  and  the  absorption  of  pas- 
sengers still  active.  It  was  indeed,  as 
Mr.  AVestgate  had  said,  a  big  boat,  and 
his  leadership  in  the  innumerable  and 
interminable  corridors  and  cabins,  with 
which  he  seemed  perfectly  acquainted, 
and  of  which  any  one  and  every  one  ap- 
peared to  have  the  entree,  was  very  grate- 
ful to  the  slightly  bewildered  voyagers. 
He  showed  them  their  state-room — a  spa- 
cious apartment,  embellished  with  gas- 
lamps,  mirrors  en  pied,  and  sculptured 
furniture — and  then,  long  after  they  had 
been  intimately  convinced  that  the  steam- 
er was  in  motion  and  launched  upon  the 
unknown  stream  that  they  were  about  to 
navigate,  he  bade  them  a  sociable  fare- 
well. 

"Well,  good-bye,  Lord  Lambeth,"  he 
said ;  "  good-bye,  Mr.  Percy  Beaumont.  I 
hope  you'll  have  a  good  time.  Just  let 
them  do  what  they  want  with  you.  I'll 
come  down  by -and -by  and  look  after 
you." 

161 


FALL 


STEAMBO/ 
NEWPOI 

LEAVES  I»»R 


The  young  Englishmen 
emerged  from  their  cabin 
and  amused  themselves  with  wan- 
dering about  the  immense  labyrin- 
thine steamer,  which  struck  them 
as  an  extraordinary  mixture  of  a 
ship  and  a  hotel.  It  was  dense- 
ly crowded  with  passengers,  the 
larger  number  of  whom  appeared 
to  be  ladies  and  very  young  chil- 
dren ;  and  in  the  big  saloons,  orna- 
mented in  white  and  gold,  which 
followed  each  other  in  surprising 
succession,  beneath  the  swinging 
gaslight,  and  among  the  small  side 
passages  where  the  negro  domes- 
tics of  both  sexes  assembled  with 
an  air  of  philosophic  leisure,  ev- 
ery one  was  moving  to  and  fro  and 
exchanging  loud  and  familiar  ob- 
servations. Eventually,  at  the  in- 
stance of  a  discriminating  black, 
our  young  men  went  and  had  some 
"supper"  in  a  wonderful  place  ar- 
ranged like  a  theatre,  where,  in  a 
gilded  gallery,  upon  which  little 


boxes  appeared  to  open,  a  large  orches- 
tra was  playing  operatic  selections,  and, 
below,  people  were  handing  about  bills 
of  fare,  as  if  they  had  been  programmes. 
All  this  was  sufficiently  curious  ;  but  the 
agreeable  tiling,  later,  was  to  sit  out  on 
one  of  the  great  white  decks  of  the 
steamer,  in  the  warm,  breezy  darkness, 
and,  in  the  vague  starlight,  to  make  out 
the  line  of  low,  mysterious  coast.  The 
young  Englishmen  tried  American  ci- 
gars— those  of  Mr.  Westgate — and  talked 
together  as  they  usually  talked,  with  many 
odd  silences,  lapses  of  logic,  and  incon- 
gruities of  transition,  like  people  who 
have  grown  old  together,  and  learned  to 
supply  each  other's  missing  phrases ;  or, 
more  especially,  like  people  thoroughly 
conscious  of  a  common  point  of  view,  so 
that  a  style  of  conversation  superficially 
lacking  in  finish  might  suffice  for  refer- 
ence to  a  fund  of  associations  in  the  light 
of  which  everything  was  all  right. 

"  We  really  seem  to  be  going  out  to 
sea,"  Percy  Beaumont  observed.  "Upon 
my  word,  we  are  going  back  to  England. 
He  has  shipped  us  off  again.  I  call  that 
'real  mean."1 

"  I  suppose  it's  all  right,''  said  Lord 

163 


Lambeth.      "I  want   to  see 
those   pretty    girls    at   New- 
port   You  know  he  told  us  the 
place  was  an  island ;  and  aren't  all 
islands  in  the  sea  ?" 

"Well,"  resumed  the  elder  trav- 
eller after  a  while,  "  if  his 
house  is  as  good  as  his 
cigars,  we  shall  do  very 
well  indeed." 

"  He    seems   a   very  good   fel- 
low," said  Lord  Lambeth,  as 
x       if  this  idea  just  occurred  to 

him. 

"  I  say,  we  had  better  remain  at  the 
inn,"  rejoined  his  companion,  present- 
ly. "I  don't  think  I  like  the  way  he 
spoke  of  his  house,  I  don't  like  stop- 
ping in  the  house  with  such  a  tremen- 
dous lot  of  women." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Lord  Lam- 
beth. And  then  they  smoked  a  while  in 
silence.  "  Fancy  his  thinking  we  do  no 
work  in  England !"  the  young  man  re- 
sumed. 

"  I  dare  say  he  didn't  really  think  so3" 
said  Percy  Beaumont. 


"  "Well,  I  guess  they  don't  know  much 
about  England  over  here  !"  declared  Lord 
Lambeth,  humorously.  And  then  there 
was  another  long  pause.  "  He  was  dev- 
ilish civil,"  observed  the  young  noble- 
man. 

"Nothing,  certainly,  could  have  been 
more  civil,"  rejoined  his  companion. 

"Littledale  said  his  wife  was  great 
fun,"  said  Lord  Lambeth. 

"Whose  wife— Littledale's  ?" 

"  This  American's  —  Mrs.  Westgate. 
What's  his  name?  J.  L." 

Beaumont  was  silent  a  moment. 
"  What  was  fun  to  Littledale,"  he  said 
at  last,  rather  sententiously,  "may 
be  death  to  us." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 
asked  his  kinsman.  "  I  am  as  good 
a  man  as  Littledale." 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  hope  you  won't 
begin  to  flirt,"  said  Percy  Beaumont. 

"  I  don't  care.  I  dare  say  I  sha'n't 
begin." 

"  With  a  married  woman,  if  she's 
bent  upon  it,  it's  all  very  well," 

Beaumont  expounded.    "  But  our 

friend    mentioned   a  young  lady 

— a  sister,  a  sister-in-law.     For 


God's  •sake,  don't  get  entangled  with 
her !" 

"  How  do  you  mean  entangled  ?" 

"  Depend  upon  it  she  will  try  to  hook 
you." 

"  Oh,  bother !"  said  Lord  Lambeth. 

"  American  girls  are  very  clever,"  urged 
his  companion. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  the  young  man 
declared. 

"  I  fancy  they  are  always  up  to  some 
game  of  that  sort,"  Beaumont  continued. 

"  They  can't  be  worse  than  they  are  in 
England,"  said  Lord  Lambeth,  judicially. 

"  Ah,  but  in  England,"  replied  Beau- 
mont, "you  have  got  your  natural  pro- 
tectors. You  have  got  your  mother  and 
sisters." 

"  My  mother  and  sisters —  "  began  the 
young  nobleman,  with  a  certain  energy. 
But  he  stopped  in  time,  puffing  at  his 
cigar. 

"Your  mother  spoke  to  me  about  it, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,"  said  Percy  Beau- 
mont. "  She  said  she  felt  very  nervous. 
I  promised  to  keep  you  out  of  mischief." 

"  You  had  better  take  care  of  yourself," 
said  the  object  of  maternal  and  ducal  so- 
licitude. 

166 


"  All,"  rejoined  the  young  barrister,  "  I 
haven't  the  expectation  of  a  hundred 
thousand  a  year,  not  to  mention  other 
attractions." 

"Well,"  said  Lord  Lambeth,  "don't 
cry  out  before  you're  hurt !" 

It  was  certainly  very  much  cooler  at 


Newport,  where  our  travellers  found 
themselves  assigned  to  a  couple  of  di- 
minutive bedrooms  in  a  far-away  angle 
of  an  immense  hotel.  They  had  gone 
ashore  in  the  early  summer  twilight,  and 
had  very  promptly  put  themselves  to 
bed ;  thanks  to  which  circumstance,  and 
to  their  having,  during  the  previous  hours 
in  their  commodious  cabin  slept  the  sleep 
of  youth  and  health,  they  began  to  feel, 
towards  eleven  o'clock,  very  alert  and  in- 

167 


quisitive.  They  looked  out  of  their  win- 
dows across  a  row  of  small  green  fields, 
bordered  with  low  stone -walls  of  rude 
construction,  and  saw  a  deep  blue  ocean 
lying  beneath  a  deep  blue  sky,  and  fleck- 
ed now  and  then  with  scintillating  patch- 
es of  foam.  A  strong,  fresh  breeze  came 
in  through  the  curtainless  casements,  and 
prompted  our  young  men  to  observe  gen- 
erally that  it  didn't  seem  half  a  bad  cli- 
mate. They  made  other  observations 
after  they  had  emerged  from  their  rooms 
in  pursuit  of  breakfast — a  meal  of  which 
they  partook  in  a  huge  bare  hall,  where 
a  hundred  negroes  in  white  jackets  were 
shuffling  about  upon  an  uncarpeted  floor  ; 
where  the  flies  were  superabundant,  and 
the  tables  and  dishes  covered  over  with  a 
strange,  voluminous  integument  of  coarse 
blue  gauze  ;  and  where  several  little  boys 
and  girls,  who  had  risen  late,  were  seated 
in  fastidious  solitude  at  the  morning  re- 
past. These  young  persons  had  not  the 
morning  paper  before  them,  but  they 
were  engaged  in  languid  perusal  of 
the  bill  of  fare. 

This  latter  document  was  a  great 
puzzle  to  our  friends,  who,  on  re- 
flecting that  its  bewildering  catego- 


168 


ries  had  relation  to  breakfast  alone,  had 
an  uneasy  prevision  of  an  encyclopaedic 
dinner  list.  They  found  a  great  deal  of 
entertainment  at  the  hotel,  an  enormous 
wooden  structure,  for  the  erection  of 
which  it  seemed  to  them  that  the  virgin 
forests  of  the  West  must  have  been  terri- 
bly deflowered.  It  was  perforated  from 
end  to  end  with  immense  bare  corridors, 
through  which  a  strong  draught  was 
blowing  —  bearing  along  wonderful  fig- 
ures of  ladies  in  white  morning -dresses 
and  clouds  of  Valenciennes  lace,  who 
seemed  to  float  down  the  long  vistas  with 
expanded  furbelows  like  angels  spread- 
ing their  wings.  In  front  was  a  gigan- 
tic veranda,  upon  which  an  army  might 
have  encamped — a  vast  wooden  terrace, 
with  a  roof  as  lofty  as  the  nave  of  a  ca- 
thedral. Here  our  young  Englishmen 
enjoyed,  as  they  supposed,  a  glimpse  of 
American  society,  which  was  distributed 
over  the  measureless  expanse  in  a  varie- 
ty of  sedentary  attitudes,  and  appeared 
to  consist  largely  of  pretty  young  girls, 
dressed  as  if  for  a  fete  champetre, 
swaying  to  and  fro  in  rocking-chairs, 
fanning  themselves  with  large  straw 
fans,  and  enjoying  an  enviable  ex-  / 


eruption  from  social  cares.  Lord  Lam- 
beth had  a  theory,  which  it  might  be  in- 
teresting to  trace  to  its  origin,  that  it 
would  be  not  only  agreeable,  but  easily 
possible,  to  enter  into  relations  with  one 
of  these  young  ladies;  and  his  companion 
(as  he  had  done  a  couple  of  days  before) 
found  occasion  to  check  the  young  no- 
bleman's colloquial  impulses. 

"  You  had  better  take  care,"  said  Percy 
Beaumont,  "  or  you  will  have  an  offended 
father  or  brother  pulling  out  a  bowie- 
knife." 

"I  assure  you  it  is  all  right,"  Lord 
Lambeth  replied.  "  You  know  the  Amer- 
icans come  to  these  big  hotels  to  make 
acquaintances." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it,  and  neither 
do  you,"  said  his  kinsman,  who,  like  a 
clever  man,  had  begun  to  perceive  that 
the  observation  of  American  society  de- 
manded a  readjustment  of  one's  stand- 
ard. 

"  Hang  it,  then,  let's  find  out !"  cried 
Lord  Lambeth,  with  some  impatience. 
"You  know  I  don't  want  to  miss  any- 
thing." 

"We  will  find  out,"  said  Percy  Beau- 
mont, very  reasonably.  "We  will  go 


170 


and  see  Mrs.  Westgate,  and  make  all  the 
proper  inquiries." 

And  so  the  two  inquiring  Englishmen, 
who  had  this  lady's  address  inscribed  in 
her  husband's  hand  upon  a  card,  descend- 
ed from  the  veranda  of  the  big  hotel  and 
took  their  way,  according  to  direction, 
along  a  large,  straight  road,  past  a  series 
of  fresh  -  looking  villas  embosomed  in 
shrubs  and  flowers,  and  enclosed  in  an 
ingenious  variety  of  wooden  palings. 
The  morning  was  brilliant  and  cool,  the 
villas  were  smart  and  snug,  and  the  walk 
of  the  young  travellers  was  very  en- 
tertaining. Everything  looked  as  if  it 
had  received  a  coat  of  fresh  paint  the 
day  before  —  the  red  roofs,  the  green 
shutters,  the  clean,  bright  browns  and 
buffs  of  the  house  fronts.  The  flower 
beds  on  the  little  lawns  seemed  to  spar- 
kle in  the  radiant  air,  and  the  gravel 
in  the  short  carriage  sweeps  to  flash  and 
twinkle.  Along  the  road  came  a  hun- 
dred little  basket-phaetons,  in  which,  al- 
most always,  a  couple  of  ladies  were  sit- 
ting— ladies  in  white  dresses  and  long 
white  gloves,  holding  the  reins  and  look- 
ing at  the  two  Englishmen — whose  na- 
tionality was  not  elusive — through  thick 


173 


blue  veils  tied  tightly  about  their  faces, 
as  if  to  guard  their  complexions.  At 
last  the  young  men  came  within  sight  of 
the  sea  again,  and  then,  having  interro- 
gated a  gardener  over  the  paling  of  a 
villa,  they  turned  into  an  open  gate. 
Here  they  found  themselves  face  to  face 
with  the  ocean  and  with  a  very  pictu- 
resque structure,  resembling  a  magnified 
chalet,  which  was  perched  upon  a  green 
embankment  just  above  it.  The  house 
had  a  veranda  of  extraordinary  width  all 
around  it,  and  a  great  many  doors  and 
windows  standing  open  to  the  veranda. 
These  various  apertures  had,  in  common, 
such  an  accessible,  hospitable  air,  such  a 
breezy  flutter  within  of  light  curtains, 
such  expansive  thresholds  and  reassuring 
interiors,  that  our  friends  hardly  knew 
which  was  the  regular  entrance,  and,  after 
hesitating  a  moment,  presented  them- 
selves at  one  of  the  windows.  The  room 
within  was  dark,  but  in  a  moment  a  grace- 
ful figure  vaguely  shaped  itself  in  the 
rich-looking  gloom,  and  a  lady  came  to 
meet  them.  Then  they  saw  that  she  had 
been  seated  at  a  table  writing,  and  that 
she  had  heard  them  and  had  got  up.  She 
stepped  out  into  the  light ;  she  wore  a 

174 


frank,  charming  smile,  with   which  she 
held  out  her  hand  to  Percy  Beaumont. 

"  Oh,  you  must  be  Lord  Lambeth  arid 
Mr.  Beaumont,"  she  said.  "  I  have  heard 
from  my  husband  that  you  would  come. 
I  am  extremely  glad  to  see  you."  And 
she  shook  hands  with  each  of  her  visitors. 
Iler  visitors  were  a  little  shy,  but  they 
had  very  good  manners ;  they  responded 
with  smiles  and  exclamations,  and  they 
apologized  for  not  knowing  the  front 
door.  The  lady  rejoined,  with  vivacity, 
that  when  she  wanted  to  see  people  very 
much  she  did  not  insist  upon  those  dis- 
tinctions, and  that  Mr.  Westgate  had 
written  to  her  of  his  English  friends  in 
terms  that  made  her  really  anxious.  "  He 
said  you  were  so  terribly  prostrated,"  said 
Mrs.  Westgate. 

"Oh,  you  mean  by  the  heat?" 
replied  Percy  Beaumont.    "  We 
were  rather  knocked  up,  but  we 
feel    wonderfully   better.      We 
had  such  a  jolly— a — voyage 
down  here.    It's  so  very  good 
of  you  to  mind." 

"  Yes,  it's  so  very  kind 
of  yon,"  murmured 
Lord  Lambeth. 


Mrs.  Westgate  stood  smiling ;  she  was 
extremely  pretty.  "  Well,  I  did  mind," 
she  said  ;  "  and  I  thought  of  sending  for 
you  this  morning  to  the  Ocean  House. 
I  am  very  glad  you  are  better,  and  I  am 
charmed  you  have  arrived.  You  must 
come  round  to  the  other  side  of  the 
piazza."  And  she  led  the  way,  with  a 
light,  smooth  step,  looking  back  at  the 
young  men  and  smiling. 

The  other  side  of  the  piazza  was,  as 
Lord  Lambeth  presently  remarked,  a  very 
jolly  place.  It  was  of  the  most  liberal  pro- 
portions, and  with  its  awnings,  its  fanci- 
ful chairs,  its  cushions  and  rugs,  its  view 
of  the  ocean,  close  at  hand,  tumbling 
along  the  base  of  the  low  cliffs  whose 
level  tops  intervened  in  lawn-like  smooth- 
ness, it  formed  a  charming  complement 
to  the  drawing-room.  As  such  it  was  in 
course  of  use  at  the  present  moment ;  it 
was  occupied  by  a  social  circle.  There 
were  several  ladies  and  two  or  three  gen- 
tlemen, to  whom  Mrs.  Westgate  proceeded 
to  introduce  the  distinguished  strangers. 
She  mentioned  a  great  many  names  very 
freely  and  distinctly ;  the  young  English- 
men, shuffling  about  and  bowing,  were 
rather  bewildered.  But  at  last  they  were 

176 


provided  with  chairs — low,  wicker  chairs, 
gilded,  and  tied  with  a  great  many  rib- 
bons— and  one  of  the  ladies  (a  very  young 
person,  with  a  little  snub-nose  and  several 
dimples)  offered  Percy  Beaumont  a  fan. 
The  fan  was  also  adorned  with  pink  love- 
knots  ;  but  Percy  Beaumont  declined  it, 
although  he  was  very  hot.  Presently, 
however,  it  became  cooler;  the  breeze 
from  the  sea  was  delicious,  the  view  was 
charming,  and  the  people  sitting  there 
looked  exceedingly  fresh  and  comfortable. 
Several  of  the  ladies  seemed  to  be  young 
girls,  and  the  gentlemen  were  slim,  fair 
youths,  such  as  our  friends  had  seen  the 
day  before  in  New  York.  The  ladies 
were  working  upon  bands  of  tapestry, 
and  one  of  the  young  men  had  an  open 
book  in  his  lap.  Beaumont  afterwards 
learned  from  one  of  the  ladies  that  this 
young  man  had  been  reading  aloud ;  that 
he  was  from  Boston,  and  was  very  fond 
of  reading  aloud.  Beaumont  said  it  was 
a  great  pity  that  they  had  interrupted 
him ;  he  should  like  so  much  (from  all  he 
had  heard)  to  hear  a  Bostonian  read. 
Couldn't  the  young  man  be  induced  to 
go  on  ? 

"  Oh    no,"    said    his    informant,   very 

177 


17 


freely;  "he  wouldn't  be  able  to  get  the 
young  ladies  to  attend  to  him  now." 

There  was  something  very  friendly, 
Beaumont  perceived,  in  the  attitude  of 
the  company ;  they  looked  at  the  young 
Englishmen  with  an  air  of  animated  sym- 
pathy and  interest ;  they  smiled,  brightly 
and  unanimously,  at  everything  either  of 
the  visitors  said.  Lord  Lambeth  and  his 
companion  felt  that  they  were  being  made 
very  welcome.  Mrs.  Westgate  seated  her- 
self between  them,  and,  talking  a  great 
deal  to  each,  they  had  occasion  to  observe 
that  she  was  as  pretty  as  their  friend 
Littledale  had  promised.  She  was  thirty 
,  years  old,  with  the  eyes  and  the  smile  of 
a  girl  of  seventeen,  and  she  was  extreme- 
,  ly  light  and  graceful — elegant,  exquisite. 
Mrs.  Westgate  was  extremely  spontane- 
1  ous.  She  was  very  frank  and  demonstra- 
tive, and  appeared  always — while  she 
looked  at  you  delightedly  with  her  beau- 
tiful young  eyes — to  be  making  sudden 
confessions  and  concessions  after  momen- 
tary hesitations. 

"We  shall  expect  to  see  a  great  deal 
of  you,"  she  said  to  Lord  Lambeth,  with 
a  kind  of  joyous  earnestness.  "We  are 


IP  \"> 


very  fond  of  Englishmen  here — that  is, 
there  are  a  great  many  we  have  been  fond 
of.  After  a  day  or  two  you  must  come 
and  stay  with  us ;  we  hope  you  will  stay 
a  long  time.  Newport's  a  very  nice  place 
when  you  come  really  to  know  it — when 
you  know  plenty  of  people.  Of  course 
you  and  Mr.  Beaumont  will  have  no  diffi- 
culty about  that.  Englishmen  are  very 
well  received  here ;  there  are  almost  al- 
ways two  or  three  of  them  about.  I  think 
they  always  like  it,  and  I  must  say  I 
should  think  they  would.  They  receive 
ever  so  much  attention.  I  must  say  I 
think  they  sometimes  get  spoiled ;  but  I 
am  sure  you  and  Mr.  Beaumont  are  proof 
against  that. 

"  My  husband  tells  me  you  are  a  friend 
of  Captain  Littledale.  He  was  such  a 
charming  man :  he  made  himself  most 
agreeable  here,  and  I  am  sure  I  wonder 
he  didn't  stay.  It  couldn't  have  been 
pleasanter  for  him  in  his  own  country, 
though,  I  suppose,  it  is  very  pleasant  in 
England  —  for  English  people.  I  don't 
know  myself;  I  have  been  there  very 
little.  I  have  been  a  great  deal  abroad, 
but  I  am  always  on  the  Continent.  I 
must  say  I  am  extremely  fond  of  Paris ; 

179 


you  know  we  Americans  always  are ;  we 
go  there  when  we  die.  Did  you  ever 
hear  that  before?  That  was  said  by  a 
great  wit — I  mean  the  good  Americans; 
but  we  are  all  good  ;  you'll  see  that  for 
yourself. 

"All  I  know  of  England  is  London, 
and  all  I  know  of  London  is  that  place 
on  that  little  corner,  you  know,  where 
you  buy  jackets — jackets  with  that  coarse 
braid  and  those  big  buttons.  They  make 
very  good  jackets  in  London ;  I  will  do 
you  the  justice  to  say  that.  And  some 
people  like  the  hats ;  but  about  the  hats 
I  was  always  a  heretic ;  I  always  got  my 
hats  in  Paris.  You  can't  wear  an  English 
hat— at  least,  I  never  could  —  unless  you 
dress  your  hair  a  VAnglcbisej  and  I  must 
say  that  is  a  talent  I  never  possessed.  In 
Paris  they  will  make  things  to  suit  your 
peculiarities ;  but  in  England  I  think  you 
like  much  more  to  have — how  shall  I  say 
it? — one  thing  for  everybody.  I  mean 
as  regards  dress.  I  don't  know  about 
other  things  ;  but  I  have  always  supposed 
that  in  other  things  everything  was  dif- 
ferent. I  mean  according  to  the  people 
— according  to  the  classes,  and  all  that. 
I  am  afraid  you  will  think  that  I  don't 


180 


take  a  very  favorable  view;  but  you  know 
you  can't  take  a  very  favorable  view  in 
Dover  Street  in  the  month  of  November. 
That  has  always  been  my  fate. 

"  Do  you  know  Jones's  Hotel,  in  Dover 
Street  ?  That's  all  I  know  of  England. 
Of  course  every  one  admits  that  the  Eng- 
lish hotels  are  your  weak  point.  There 
was  always  the  most  frightful  fog;  I 
couldn't  see  to  try  my  things  on.  When 
I  got  over  to  America — into  the  light — I 
usually  found  they  were  twice  too  big. 
The  next  time  I  mean  to  go  in  the  season; 
I  think  I  shall  go  next  year.  I  want  very 
much  to  take  my  sister;  she  has  never 
been  to  England.  I  don't  know  whether 
you  know  what  I  mean  by  saying  that 
the  Englishmen  who  come  here  some- 
times get  spoiled.  I  mean  that  they  take 
things  as  a  matter  of  course — things  that 
are  done  for  them.  Now,  naturally,  they 
are  only  a  matter  of  course  when  the 
Englishmen  are  very  nice.  But,  of  course, 
they  are  almost  always  very  nice.  Of 
course  this  isn't  nearly  such  an  interest- 
ing country  as  England ;  there  are  not 
nearly  so  many  things  to  see,  and  we 
haven't  your  country  life.  I  have  never 
seen  anything  of  your  country  life ;  when 


181 


I  am  in  Europe  I  am  always  on  the  Conti- 
nent. But  I  have  heard  a  great  deal 
about  it ;  I  know  that  when  you  are 
among  yourselves  in  the  country  you  have 
the  most  beautiful  time.  Of  course  we 
have  nothing  of  that  sort ;  we  have  noth- 
ing on  that  scale. 

"  I  don't  apologize,  Lord  Lambeth ; 
some  Americans  are  always  apologizing ; 
you  must  have  noticed  that.  We  have 
the  reputation  of  always  boasting  and 
bragging  and  waving  the  American  flag ; 
but  I  must  say  that  what  strikes  me  is 
that  we  are  perpetually  making  excuses 
and  trying  to  smooth  tilings  over.  The 
American  flag  has  quite  gone  out  of  fash- 
ion ;  it's  very  carefully  folded  up  like  an 
old  table-cloth.  Why  should  we  apol- 
ogize? The  English  never  apologize — 
do  they?  No  ;  I  must  say  I  never  apol- 
ogize. You  must  take  us  as  we  come — 
with  all  our  imperfections  on  our  heads. 
Of  course  we  haven't  your  country  life, 
and  your  old  ruins,  and  your  great  estates, 
and  your  leisure  class,  and  all  that.  But 
if  we  haven't,  I  should  think  you  might 
find  it  a  pleasant  change — I  think  any 
country  is  pleasant  where  they  have  pleas- 
ant manners. 


u  Captain  Littledale  told  me  he  had 
never  seen  such  pleasant  manners  as  at 
Newport,  and  he  had  been  a  great  deal 
in  European  society.  Hadn't  he  been  in 
the  diplomatic  service?  He  told  me  the 
dream  of  his  life  was  to  get  appointed  to 
a  diplomatic  post  at  Washington.  But 
he  doesn't  seem  to  have  succeeded.  I 
suppose  that  in  England  promotion — and 
all  that  sort  of  thing — is  fearfully  slow. 
With  us,  you  know,  it's  a  great  deal  too 
fast.  You  see,  I  admit  our  drawbacks. 
But  I  must  confess  I  think  Newport  is 
an  ideal  place.  I  don't  know  anything 
like  it  anywhere.  Captain  Littledale 
told  me  he  didn't  know  anything  like  it 
anywhere.  It's  entirely  different  from 
most  watering-places  ;  it's  a  most  charm- 
ing life.  I  must  say  I  think  that  when 
one  goes  to  a  foreign  country  one  ought 
to  enjoy  the  differences.  Of  course  there 
are  differences,  otherwise  what  did  one 
come  abroad  for?  Look  for  your  pleas- 
ure in  the  differences,  Lord  Lambeth  ; 
that's  the  way  to  do  it ;  and  then  I  am 
sure  you  will  find  American  society — at 
least,  Newport  society — most  charming 
and  most  interesting.  I  wish  very  much 
my  husband  were  here ;  but  he's  dread- 


183 


fully  confined  to  New  York.  I  suppose 
you  think  that  is  very  strange  —  for  a 
gentleman.  But  you  see  we  haven't  any 
leisure  class." 

Mrs.  Westgate's  discourse,  delivered  in 
a  soft,  sweet  voice,  flowed  on  like  a  min- 
iature torrent,  and  was  interrupted  by  a 
hundred  little  smiles,  glances,  and  gest- 
ures, which  might  have  figured  the  ir- 
regularities and  obstructions  of  such  a 
stream.  Lord  Lambeth  listened  to  her 
with,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  rather  in- 
effectual attention,  although  he  indulged 
in  a  good  many  little  murmurs  and  ejac- 
ulations of  assent  and  deprecation.  He 
had  no  great  faculty  for  apprehending 
generalizations.  There  were  some  three 
or  four  indeed  which,  in  the  play  of  his 
own  intelligence,  he  had  originated,  and 
which  had  seemed  convenient  at  the  mo- 
ment ;  but  at  the  present  time  he  could 
hardly  have  been  said  to  follow  Mrs. 
Westgate  as  she  darted  gracefully  about 
in  the  sea  of  speculation.  Fortunately, 
she  asked  for  no  special  rejoinder,  for  she 
looked  about  at  the  rest  of  the  company 
as  well,  and  smiled  at  Percy  Beaumont, 
on  the  other  side  of  her,  as  if  he,  too,  must 
understand  her  and  agree  with  her.  He 


184 


was  rather  more  successful  than  his  com- 
panion; for  besides  being,  as  we  know, 
cleverer,  his  attention  was  not  vaguely 
distracted  by  close  vicinity  to  a  remark- 
ably interesting  young  girl  with  dark 
hair  and  blue  eyes.  This  was  the  case 
with  Lord  Lambeth,  to  whom  it  occurred 
after  a  while  that  the  young  girl  with 
blue  eyes  and  dark  hair  was  the  pretty 
sister  of  whom  Mrs.  Westgate  had  spoken. 
She  presently  turned  to  him  with  a  re- 
mark which  established  her  identity. 

"  It's  a  great  pity  you 
couldn't  have  brought 
my  brother-in-law 


with  you.  It's  a  great  shame  he  should 
be  in  New  York  in  these  days." 

"  Oh  yes ;  it's  so  very  hot,"  said  Lord 
Lambeth. 

"  It  must  be  dreadful,"  said  the  young 
girl. 

"  I  dare  say  he  is  very  busy,"  Lord 
Lambeth  observed. 

"  The  gentlemen  in  America  work  too 
much,"  the  young  girl  went  on. 

"  Oh,  do  they  ?  I  dare  say  they  like 
it,"  said  her  interlocutor. 

"  I  don't  like  it.    One  never  sees  them." 

"  Don't  you,  really  ?"  asked  Lord  Lam- 
beth. "  I  shouldn't  have  fancied  that." 

"  Have  you  come  to  study  American 
manners  ?"  asked  the  young  girl. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  just  came  over 
for  a  lark.  I  haven't  got  long."  Here 
there  was  a  pause,  and  Lord  Lambeth  be- 
gan again.  "But  Mr.  Westgate  will  come 
down  here,  will  he  not  ?" 

"I  certainly  hope  he  will.  He  must 
help  to  entertain  you  and  Mr.  Beaumont." 

Lord  Lambeth  looked  at  her  a  little 
with  his  handsome  brown  eyes.  "Do 
you  suppose  he  would  have  come  down 
with  us  if  we  had  urged  him  ?" 

Mr.  Westgate's  sister-in-law  was  silent 


186 


a  moment,  and  then,  "  I  dare  say  he 
would,"  she  answered. 

".Really !"  said  the  young  Englishman. 
"He  was  immensely  civil  to  Beaumont 
and  me,"  he  added. 

"  He  is  a  dear,  good  fellow,"  the  young 
lady  rejoined,  "and  he  is  a  perfect  hus- 
band. But  all  Americans  are  that,"  she 
continued,  smiling. 

"  Really !"  Lord  Lambeth  exclaimed 
again,  and  wondered  whether  all  Amer- 
ican ladies  had  such  a  passion  for  gener- 
alizing as  these  two. 

He  sat  there  a  good  while :  there  was 
a  great  deal  of  talk ;  it  was  all  very 
friendly  and  lively  and  jolly.  Every  one 
present,  sooner  or  later,  said  something 
to  him,  and  seemed  to  make  a  particular 
point  of  addressing  him  by  name.  Two 
or  three  other  persons  came  in,  and  there 
Avas  a  shifting  of  seats  and  changing  of 
places ;  the  gentlemen  all  entered  into 
intimate  conversation  with  the  two  Eng- 
lishmen, made  them  urgent  offers  of  hos- 
pitality, and  hoped  they  might  frequently 
be  of  service  to  them.  They  were  afraid 
Lord  Lambeth  and  Mr.  Beaumont  were 
not  very  comfortable  at  their  hotel ;  that 
it  was  not,  as  one  of  them  said,  "  so  pri- 


187 


vate  as  those  dear  little  English  inns  of 
yours."  This  last  gentleman  went  on  to 
say  that  unfortunately,  as  yet,  perhaps, 
privacy  was  not  quite  so  easily  obtained 
in  America  as  might  be  desired ;  still,  he 
continued,  you  could  generally  get  it  by 
paying  for  it ;  in  fact,  you  could  get 
everything  in  America  nowadays  by 
paying  for  it.  American  life  was  cer- 
tainly growing  a  great  deal  more  pri- 
vate ;  it  was  growing  very  much  like 
England.  Everything  at  Newport,  for 
instance,  was  thoroughly  private ;  Lord 
Lambeth  would  probably  be  struck  with 
that.  It  was  also  represented  to  the 
strangers  that  it  mattered  very  little 
whether  their  hotel  was  agreeable,  as 
every  one  would  want  them  to  make 
visits  ;  they  would  stay  with  other  peo- 
ple, and,  in  any  case,  they  would  be  a 
great  deal  at  Mrs.  Westgate's.  They 
would  find  that  very  charming;  it  was 
the  pleasantest  house  in  Newport.  It 
was  a  pity  Mr.  Westgate  was  always 
away ;  he  was  a  man  of  the  highest 
ability  —  very  acute,  very  acute.  He 
worked  like  a  horse,  and  he  left  his  wife 
—well,  to  do  about  as  she  liked.  He 
liked  her  to  enjoy  herself,  and  she  seemed 


to  kno\v 
She  was  ex- 
tremely brill- 
iant, and  a 
splendid  talk- 
er. Some  peo- 
ple preferred 

her  sister  ;  but  Miss  Aid  en   was 

very  different ;   she  was  in  a  dif- 

ferent style  altogether.  Some  people  even 
thought  her  prettier,  and,  certainly,  she 
was  not  so  sharp.  She  was  more  in  the 
Boston  style ;  she  had  lived  a  great  deal 
in  Boston,  and  she  was  very  highly  ed- 
ucated. Boston  girls,  it  was  propounded, 
were  more  like  English  young  ladies. 

Lord  Lambeth  had  presently  a  chance 
to  test  the  truth  of  this  proposition,  for 
on  the  company  rising  in  compliance  with 
a  suggestion  from  their  hostess  that  they 
should  walk  down  to  the  rocks  and  look 
at  the  sea,  the  young  Englishman  again 
found  himself,  as  they  strolled  across  the 
grass,  in  proximity  to  Mrs.  Westgate's 
sister.  Though  she  was  but  a  girl  of 
twenty,  she  appeared  to  feel  the  obliga- 
tion to  exert  an  active  hospitality ;  and 


this  was,  perhaps,  the  more  to  be  noticed 
as  she  seemed  by  nature  a  reserved  and 
retiring  person,  and  had  little  of  her  sis- 
ter's fraternizing  quality.  She  was,  per- 
haps, rather  too  thin,  and  she  was  a  little 
pale ;  but  as  she  moved  slowly  over  the 
grass,  with  her  arms  hanging  at  her  sides, 
looking  gravely  for  a  moment  at  the  sea 
and  then  brightly,  for  all  her  gravity,  at 
him,  Lord  Lambeth  thought  her  at  least 
as  pretty  as  Mrs.  Westgate,  and  reflected 
that  if  this  was  the  Boston  style  the  Bos- 
ton style  was  very  charming.  He  thought 
she  looked  very  clever ;  he  could  imagine 
that  she  was  highly  educated  ;  but  at  the 
same  time  she  seemed  gentle  and  grace- 
ful. For  all  her  cleverness,  however,  he 
felt  that  she  had  to  think  a  little  what  to 
say;  she  didn't  say  the  first  thing  that 
came  into  her  head  ;  he  had  come  from  a 
different  part  of  the  world  and  fram  a 
different  society,  and  she  was  trying  to 
adapt  her  conversation.  The  others  were 
scattering  themselves  near  the  rocks; 
Mrs.  Westgate  had  charge  of  Percy  Beau- 
mont. 

"  Very  jolly  place,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Lord 
Lambeth.  "  It's  a  very  jolly  place  to  sit." 

"  Very  charming,"  said  the  young  girl. 


190 


"  I  often  sit  here ;  there  are  all  kinds  of 
cosey  corners — as  if  they  had  been  made 
on  purpose." 

"Ah,  I  suppose  you  have  had  some 
of  them  made,"  said  the  young  man. 

Miss  Alden  looked  at  him  a  moment. 
"  Oh  no,  we  have  had  nothing  made.  It's 
pure  nature." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  have  a  few 
little  benches — rustic  seats,  and  that  sort 
of  thing.  It  might  be  so  jolly  to  sit  here, 
you  know,"  Lord  Lambeth  went  on. 

"I  am  afraid  we  haven't  so  many  of 
those  things  as  you,"  said  the  young  girl, 
thoughtfully. 

"  I  dare  say  you  go  in  for  pure  nature, 
as  you  were  saying.  Nature  over  here 
must  be  so  grand,  you  know."  And  Lord 
Lambeth  looked  about  him. 

The  little  coast -line  hereabouts  was 
very  pretty,  but  it  was  not  at  all  grand, 
and  Miss  Alden  appeared  to  rise  to  a  per- 
ception of  this  fact.  "I  am  afraid  it 
seems  to  you  very  rough,"  she  said.  "  It's 
not  like  the  coast  scenery  in  Kingsley's 
novels." 

"  Ah,  the  novels  always  overdo  it,  you 
know,"  Lord  Lambeth  rejoined.  "  You 
must  not  go  by  the  novels." 

191 


They  were  wandering  about  a  little  on 
the  rocks,  and  they  stopped  and  looked 
down  into  a  narrow  chasm  where  the  ris- 
ing tide  made  a  curious  bellowing  sound. 
It  was  loud  enough  to  prevent  their  hear- 
ing each  other,  and  they  stood  there  for 
some  moments  in  silence.  The  young 
girl  looked  at  her  companion,  observing 
him  attentively,  but  covertly,  as  women, 
even  when  very  young,  know  how  to 
do.  Lord  Lambeth  repaid  observation ; 
tall,  straight,  and  strong,  he  was  hand- 
some as  certain  young  Englishmen,  and 
certain  young  Englishmen,  almost  alone, 
are  handsome,  with  a  perfect  finish  of 
feature  and  a  look  of  intellectual  repose 
and  gentle  good -temper  which  seemed 
somehow  to  be  consequent  upon  his  well- 
cut  nose  and  chin.  And  to  speak  of 
Lord  Lambeth's  expression  of  intellectual 


repose  is  not  simply  a  civil  way  of  say- 
ing that  he  looked  stupid.  He  was  ev- 
idently not  a  young  man  of  an  irritable 
imagination ;  he  was  not,  as  he  would 
himself  have  said,  tremendously  clever; 
but  though  there  was  a  kind  of  appealing 
dniness  in  his  eye,  he  looked  thoroughly 
reasonable  and  competent,  and  his  appear- 
ance proclaimed  that  to  be  a  nobleman, 
an  athlete,  and  an  excellent  fellow  was  a 
sufficiently  brilliant  combination  of  qual- 
ities. The  young  girl  beside  him,  it  may 
be  attested  without  further  delay,  thought 
him  the  handsomest  young  man  she  had 
ever  seen ;  and  Bessie  Alden's  imagina- 
tion, unlike  that  of  her  companion,  was 
irritable.  He,  however,  was  also  making 
up  his  mind  that  she  was  uncommonly 
pretty. 

"I  dare  say  it's  very  gay  here — that 
you  have  lots  of  balls  and  parties,"  he 
said ;  for,  if  he  was  not  tremendously 
clever,  he  rather  prided  himself  on  hav- 
ing, with  women,  a  sufficiency  of  con- 
versation. 

"Oh  yes,  there  is  a  great  deal  going 
on,"  Bessie  Alden  replied.  "  There  are 
not  so  many  balls,  but  there  are  a  good 
many  other  things.  You  will  see  for 


yourself ;  we  live  rather  in  the  midst  of 
it." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  say  that. 
But  I  thought  you  Americans  were  al- 
ways dancing." 

"  I  suppose  we  dance  a  good  deal ;  but 
I  have  never  seen  much  of  it.  We  don't 
do  it  much,  at  any  rate,  in  summer.  And 
I  am  sure,"  said  Bessie  Alden,  "  that  we 
don't  have  so  many  balls  as  you  have  in 
England." 

"  Really !"  exclaimed  Lord  Lambeth. 
"  Ah,  in  England  it  all  depends,  you 
know." 

"  You  will  not  think  much  of  our  gay- 
eties,"  said  the  young  girl,  looking  at 
him  with  a  little  mixture  of  interrogation 
and  decision  which  was  peculiar  to  her. 
The  interrogation  seemed  earnest  and  the 
decision  seemed  arch ;  but  the  mixture,  at 
any  rate,  was  charming.  "  Those  things, 
with  us,  are  much  less  splendid  than  in 
England." 

"  I  fancy  you  don't  mean  that,"  said 
Lord  Lambeth,  laughing. 

"  I  assure  you  I  mean  everything  I  say," 
the  young  girl  declared.  "  Certainly, 
from  what  I  have  read  about  English 
society,  it  is  very  different." 


194 


"  All  well,  you  know,"  said  her  com- 
panion, "  those  things  are  often  described 
by  fellows  who  know  nothing  about  them. 
You  mustn't  mind  what  you  read." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  mind  what  I  read  !"  Bessie 
Alden  rejoined.  "  When  I  read  Thackeray 
and  George  Eliot,  how  can  I  help  mind- 
ing them  ?" 

"Ah,  well,  Thackeray  and  George 
Eliot,"  said  the  young  nobleman ;  "  I 
haven't  read  much  of  them." 

"  Don't  you  suppose  they  know  about 
society  ?"  asked  Bessie  Alden. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  they  know  ;  they  were 
so  clever.  But  these  fashionable  novels," 
said  Lord  Lambeth,  "  they  are  awful  rot, 
you  know." 

His  companion  looked  at  him  a  mo- 
ment with  her  dark  blue  eyes,  and  then 
she  looked  down  in  the  chasm  where  the 
water  was  tumbling  about.  "  Do  you 
mean  Mrs.  Gore,  for  instance  ?"  she  said, 
presently,  raising  her  eyes. 

"I  am  afraid  I  haven't  read  that,  ei- 
ther," was  the  young  man's  rejoinder, 
laughing  a  little  and  blushing.  "I  am 
afraid  you'll  think  I  am  not  very  intel- 
lectual." 

"  Reading  Mrs.  Gore  is  no  proof  of  in- 
195 


tellect.  But  I  like  reading  everything, 
about  English  life — even  poor  books.  Ij 
am  so  curious  about  it." 

"Aren't  ladies  always  curious?"  asked 
the  young  man,  jestingly. 

But  Bessie  Alden  appeared  to  desire  to 
answer  his  question  seriously.  "  I  don't 
think  so — I  don't  think  we  are  enough  so 
— that  we  care  about  many  things.  So 
it's  all  the  more  of  a  compliment,"  she 
added,  "  that  I  should  want  to  know  so 
much  about  England." 

The  logic  here  seemed  a  little  close; 
but  Lord  Lambeth,  made  conscious  of  a 
compliment,  found  his  natural  modesty 
just  at  hand.  "  I  am  sure  you  know  a 
great  deal  more  than  I  do." 

"  I  really  think  I  know  a  great  deal — 
for  a  person  who  has  never  been  there." 

"  Have  you  really  never  been  there  ?" 
cried  Lord  Lambeth.  "  Fancy !" 

"Never — except  in  imagination,"  said 
the  young  girl. 

"Fancy!"  repeated  her  companion. 
"But  I  dare  say  you'll  go  soon,  won't 
you?" 

196 


"It's  the  dream  of  my  life!"  said  Bessie 
Alden,  smiling. 

"  But  your  sister  seems  to  know  a  tre- 
mendous lot  about  London,"  Lord  Lam- 
beth went  on. 

The  young  girl  was  silent  a  moment. 
"  My  sister  and  I  are  two  very  different 
persons,"  she  presently  said.  "  She  has 
been  a  great  deal  in  Europe.  She  has 
been  in  England  several  times.  She  has 
known  a  great  many  English  people." 

"But  you  must  have  known  some,  too," 
said  Lord  Lambeth. 

"  I  don't  think  that  I  have  ever  spoken 
to  one  before.  You  are  the  first  Eng- 
lishman that — to  my  knowledge — I  have 
ever  talked  with." 

Bessie  Alden  made  this  statement  with 
a  certain  gravity — almost,  as  it  seemed  to 
Lord  Lambeth,  an  impressi  veil  ess.  At- 
tempts at  impressiveness  always  made 
him  feel  awkward,  and  he  now  began  to 
laugh  and  swing  his  stick.  "Ah,  you 
would  have  been  sure  to  know !"  he  said. 
And  then  he  added,  after  an  instant,  "I'm 
sorry  I  am  not  a  better  specimen." 

The  young  girl  looked  away ;  but  she 
smiled,  laying  aside  her  impressiveness. 
"You  must  remember  that  you  are  only  a 

197' 


beginning,"  she  said.  Then  she  retraced 
her  steps,  leading  the  -way  back  to  the 
lawn,  where  they  saw  Mrs.  Westgate  come 
towards  them  with  Percy  Beaumont  still 
at  her  side.  "  Perhaps  I  shall  go  to  Eng- 
land next  year,"  Miss  Alden  continued ; 
"  I  want  to,  immensely.  My  sister  is 
going  to  Europe,  and  she  has  asked  me 
to  go  with  her.  If  we  go,  I  shall  make 
her  stay  as  long  as  possible  in  London." 

"Ah,  you  must  come  in  July,"  said 
Lord  Lambeth.  "  That's  the  time  when 
there  is  most  going  on." 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  wait  till  July," 
the  young  girl  rejoined.  "By  the  first 
of  May  I  shall  be  very  impatient."  They 
had  gone  farther,  and  Mrs.  Westgate  and 
her  companion  were  near  them.  "Kit- 
ty," said  Miss  Alden,  "  I  have  given  out 
that  we  are  going  to  London  next  May. 
So  please  to  conduct  yourself  accord- 
ingly." 

Percy  Beaumont  wore  a  somewhat  ani- 
mated—  even  a  slightly  irritated  —  air. 
He  was  by  no  means  so  handsome  a  man 
as  his  cousin,  although  in  his  cousin's  ab- 
sence he  might  have  passed  for  a  striking 
specimen  of  the  tall,  muscular,  fair-beard- 
ed, clear- eyed  Englishman.  Just  now 


Beaumont's  clear  eyes,  which  were  small 
and  of  a  pale  gray  color,  had  a  rather  trou- 
bled light,  and,  after  glancing  at  Bessie 
Alden  while  she  spoke,  he  rested  them 
upon  his  kinsman.  Mrs.  Westgate  mean- 
while, with  her  superfluously  pretty  gaze, 
looked  at  every  one  alike. 

"You  had  better  wait  till  the  time 
comes,"  she  said  to  her  sister.  "Perhaps 
next  May  you  won't  care  so  much  about 
London.  Mr.  Beaumont  and  I,"  she  went 
on,  smiling  at  her  companion,  "  have  had 
a  tremendous  discussion.  We  don't  agree 
about  anything.  It's  perfectly  delight- 
ful." 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Percy  !"  exclaimed  Lord 
Lambeth. 

"  I  disagree,"  said  Beaumout,  stroking 
down  his  back  hair,  "even  to  the  point 
of  not  thinking  it  delightful." 

"  Oh,  I  say !"  cried  Lord  Lambeth  again. 

"I  don't  see  anything  delightful  in 
my  disagreeing  with  Mrs.  Westgate,"  said 
Percy  Beaumont. 

"Well,  I  do!"  Mrs.  Westgate  declared; 
and  she  turned  to  her  sister.  "  You  know 
you  have  to  go  to  town.  The  phaeton  is 
there.  You  had  better  take  Lord  Lam- 
beth." 

199 


At  tins  point  Percy  Beaumont  certainly 
looked  straight  at  his  kinsman ;  he  tried 
to  catch  his  eye.  But  Lord  Lambeth 
would  not  look  at  him;  his  own  eyes 
were  better  occupied.  "  I  shall  be  very 
happy,"  cried  Bessie  Alden.  "I  am  only 
going  to  some  shops.  But  I  will  drive 
you  about  and  show  you  the  place." 

"An  American  woman  who  respects 
herself,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate,  turning  to 
Beaumont  with  her  bright  expos- 
itory air,    "must  buy  something 
every  day  of  her  life.     If  she  can- 
not do  it  herself,  she 
must  send 
out    some 
member  of 
her   family 
for  the  pur- 
pose.     So 
Bessie  goes 
forth  to  ful- 
fil my  mis- 
sion." 
The  young 
girl     had 


walked  away,  with  Lord  Lambeth  by  her 
side,  to  whom  she  was  talking  still ;  and 
Percy  Beaumont  watched  them  as  they 
passed  towards  the  house.  "  She  fulfils 
her  own  mission,"  he  presently  said ;  "that 
of  being  a  very  attractive  young  lady." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  should  say  very 
attractive,"  Mrs.  Westgate  rejoined.  "  She 
is  not  so  much  that  as  she  is  charming, 
when  you  really  know  her.  She  is  very 
shy." 

"Oh,  indeed  !"  said  Percy  Beaumont. 

"Extremely  shy,"  Mrs.  Westgate  re- 
peated. "  But  she  is  a  dear,  good  girl ; 
she  is  a  charming  species  of  a  girl.  She 
is  not  in  the  least  a  flirt ;  that  isn't  at  all 
her  line ;  she  doesn't  know  the  alphabet 
of  that  sort  of  thing.  She  is  very  simple, 
very  serious.  She  has  lived  a  great  deal 
in  Boston,  with  another  sister  of  mine — 
the  eldest  of  us  —  who  married  a  Bos- 
tonian.  She  is  very  cultivated — not  at 
all  like  me ;  I  am  not  in  the  least  cul- 
tivated. She  has  studied  immensely  and 
read  everything ;  she  is  what  they  call  in 
Boston  <  thoughtful.'  " 

"A  rum  sort  of  girl  for  Lambeth  to 
get  hold  of !"  his  lordship's  kinsman  pri- 
vately reflected. 

201 


"  I  really  believe,"  Mrs.  Westgate  con- 
tinued, "  that  the  most  charming  girl  in 
the  world  is  a  Boston  superstructure 
upon  a  New  Yorkfondsj  or  perhaps  a 
New  York  superstructure  upon  a  Boston 
fonds.  At  any  rate,  it's  the  mixture," 
said  Mrs.  Westgate,  who  continued  to 
give  Percy  Beaumont  a  great  deal  of  in- 
formation. 

Lord  Lambeth  got  into  a  little  basket 
phaeton  with  Bessie  Alden,  and  she  drove 
him  down  the  long  avenue,  whose  extent 
he  had  measured  on  foot  a  couple  of  hours 
before,  into  the  ancient  town,  as  it  was 
called  in  that  part  of  the  world,  of  New- 
port. The  ancient  town  was  a  curious 
affair — a  collection  of  fresh-looking  little 
wooden  houses,  painted  white,  scattered 
over  a  hill-side  and  clustered  about  a  long, 
straight  street,  paved  with  enormous  cob- 
ble-stones. There  were  plenty  of  shops, 
a  large  proportion  of  which  appeared  to 
be  those  of  fruit  venders,  with  piles  of 
huge  watermelons  and  pumpkins  stacked 
in  front  of  them ;  arid,  drawn  up  before 
the  shops,  or  bumping  about  on  the  cob- 
ble-stones, were  innumerable  other  bas- 
ket-phaetons freighted  with  ladies  of  high 
fashion,  who  greeted  each  other  from 


202 


vehicle  to  vehicle,  and  conversed  on  the 
edge  of  the  pavement  in  a  manner  that 
struck  Lord  Lambeth  as  demonstrative, 
with  a  great  many  "  Oh,  my  dears,"  and 
little,  quick  exclamations  and  caresses. 
His  companion  went  into  seventeen  shops 

—  he  amused  himself  with  counting  them 

—  and  accumulated  at  the  bottom  of  the 
phaeton  a  pile   of  bundles   that  hardly 
left  the  young  Englishman  a  place  for 
his  feet.     As  she  had  no  groom  nor  foot- 
man, he  sat  in  the  phaeton  to  hold  the 
ponies,  where,  although   he  was    not   a 
particularly  acute  observer,  he  saw  much 
to  entertain  him  —  especially  the  ladies 
just  mentioned,  who  wandered  tip  and 
down  with  the  appearance  of  a  kind  of 
aimless  intentness,  as  if  they  were  looking 
for  something  to  buy,  and  who,  tripping 
in  and  out  of  their  vehicles,  displayed 
remarkably  pretty  feet.     It  all  seemed  to 
Lord  Lambeth  very  odd  and  bright  and 
gay.     Of  course,  before  they  got  back  to 
the  villa,  he  had  had  a  great  deal  of  des- 
ultory conversation  with  Bessie  Alden. 

The  young  Englishmen  spent  the  whole 
of  that  day  and  the  whole  of  many  sue- 
cessive  days  in  what  the  French  call  the 
intimite  of  their  new  friends.  They 


.MB 

gr  ;  . 

•B 


agreed  that  it  was  extremely  jolly,  that 
they  had  never  known  anything  more 
agreeable.  It  is  not  proposed  to  narrate 
minutely  the  incidents  of  their  sojourn 
on  this  charming  shore ;  though  if  it 
were  convenient  I  might  present  a  rec- 
ord of  impressions  none  the  less  delec- 
table that  they  were  not  exhaustively  an- 
alyzed. Many  of  them  still  linger  in  the 
minds  of  our  travellers,  attended  by  a 
train  of  harmonious  images — images  of 
brilliant  mornings  on  lawns  and  piazzas 
that  overlooked  the  sea ;  of  innumerable 
pretty  girls ;  of  infinite  lounging  and  talk- 
ing and  laughing  and  flirting  and  lunch- 
ing and  dining;  of  universal  friendliness 
and  frankness;  of  occasions  on  which 
they  knew  every  one  and  everything, 
and  had  an  extraordinary  sense  of  ease ; 
of  drives  and  rides  in  the  late  afternoon 
over  gleaming  beaches,  on  long  sea-roads 
beneath  a  sky  lighted  up  by  marvellous 
sunsets  ;  of  suppers,  on  the  return,  infor- 
mal, irregular,  agreeable ;  of  evenings  at 
open  windows  or  on  the  perpetual  ve- 
randas, in  the  summer  starlight,  above 
the  warm  Atlantic.  The  young  English- 
men were  introduced  to  everybody,  enter- 
tained by  everybody,  intimate  with  every- 

204 


body.  At  the  end  of  three 
days  they  had  removed  their 
luggage  from  the  hotel,  and 
gone  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Westgate 
— a  step  to  which  Percy  Beau- 
mont at  first  offered  some  conscientious 
opposition.  I  call  his  opposition  conscien- 
tious, because  it  was  founded  upon  some 

205 


talk  that  he  had  had,  on  the  second  day, 
with  Bessie  Alden.  He  had  indeed  had 
a  good  deal  of  talk  with  her,  for  she  was 
not  literally  always  in  conversation  with 
Lord  Lambeth.  He  had  meditated  upon 
Mrs.  Westgate's  account  of  her  sister,  and 
he  discovered  for  himself  that  the  young 
lady  was  clever,  and  appeared  to  have 
read  a  great  deal.  She  seemed  very  nice, 
though  he  could  not  make  out  that,  as 
Mrs.  "Westgate  had  said,  she  was  shy.  If 
she  was  shy,  she  carried  it  off  very  well. 

"Mr.  Beaumont,"  she  had  said,  "please 
tell  me  something  about  Lord  Lambeth's 
family.  How  would  you  say  it  in  Eng- 
land— his  position  ?" 

"His  position?"  Percy  Beaumont  re- 
peated. 

"  His  rank,  or  whatever  you  call  it. 
Unfortunately,  we  haven't  got  a  'peer- 
age,' like  the  people  in  Thackeray." 

"  That's  a  great  pity,"  said  Beaumont. 
"  You  would  find  it  all  set  forth  there  so 
much  better  than  I  can  do  it." 

"  He  is  a  peer,  then  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  he  is  a  peer." 

"  And  has  he  any  other  title  than  Lord 
Lambeth  ?" 

"  His  title  is  the  Marquis  of  Lambeth," 

206 


said  Beaumont ;  and  then  lie  was  silent. 
Bessie  Alden  appeared  to  be  looking  at 
him  with  interest.  "  He  is  the  son  of 
the  Duke  of  Bayswater,"  he  added,  pres- 
ently. 

"  The  eldest  son  ?" 

"  The  only  son." 

"  And  are  his  parents  living  ?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  if  his  father  were  not  living 
he  would  be  a  duke." 

"  So  that  when  his  father  dies,"  pursued 
Bessie  Alden,  with  more  simplicity  than 
might  have  been  expected  in  a  clever  girl, 
"he  will  become  Duke  of  Bays  water  f 

"  Of  course,"  said  Percy  Beaumont. 
"  But  his  father  is  in  excellent  health." 

"And  his  mother?" 

Beaumont  smiled  a  little.  "The  duch- 
ess is  uncommonly  robust." 

"  And  has  he  any  sisters  ?" 

"  Yes,  there  are  two." 

"  And  what  are  they  called  ?" 

"  One  of  them  is  married.  She  is  the 
Countess  of  Pimlico." 

"And  the  other?" 

"  The  other  is  unmarried  ;  she  is  plain 
Lady  Julia." 

Bessie  Alden  looked  at  him  a  moment. 
"  Is  she  very  plain  ?" 


Beaumont  began  to  laugh  again.  "  You 
would  not  find  her  so  handsome  as  her 
brother,"  he  said ;  and  it  was  after  this 
that  he  attempted  to  dissuade  the  heir  of 
the  Duke  of  Bayswater  from  accepting 
Mrs.  "Westgate's  invitation.  "  Depend 
upon  it,"  he  said,  "  that  girl  means  to  try 
for  you." 

"It  seems  to  me  you  are  doing  your 
best  to  make  a  fool  of  me,"  the  modest 
young  nobleman  answered. 

"  She  has  been  asking  me,"  said  Beau- 
mont, "all  about  your  people  and  your 
possessions." 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  very  good  of  her !" 
Lord  Lambeth  rejoined. 

"Well,  then,"  observed  his  companion, 
"if  you  go,  you  go  with  your  eyes  open." 

"D — n  my  eyes!"  exclaimed  Lord  Lam- 
beth. "  If  one  is  to  be  a  dozen  times  a 
day  at  the  house,  it  is  a  great  deal  more 
convenient  to  sleep  there.  I  am  sick 
of  travelling  up  and  down  this  beastly 
avenue." 

Since  he  had  determined  to  go,  Percy 
Beaumont  would,  of  course,  have  been 
very  sorry  to  allow  him  to  go  alone ;  he 
was  a  man  of  conscience,  and  he  remem- 
bered his  promise  to  the  duchess.  It 

208 


was  obviously  the  memory  of  this  prom- 
ise that  made  him  say  to  his  companion 
a  couple  of  days,  later  that  he  rather  won- 
dered he  should  be  so  fond  of  that  girl. 

"  In  the  first  place,  how  do  you  know 
how  fond  I  am  of  her  ?"  asked  Lord  Lam- 
beth. "And,  in  the  second  place,  why 
shouldn't  I  be  fond  of  her?" 

"  I  shouldn't  think  she  would  be  in 
your  line." 

"  What  do  you  call  my  <  line  ?'  You 
don't  set  her  down  as  '  fast  ?'  " 

"  Exactly  so.  Mrs.  Westgate  tells  me 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  the  'fast 
girl'  in  America;  that  it's  an  English 
invention,  and  that  the  term  has  no  mean- 
ing here." 

"  All  the  better.  It's  an  animal  I  detest." 

"  You  prefer  a  blue-stocking." 

"  Is  that  what  you  call  Miss  Alden  ?" 

"Her  sister  tells  me,"  said  Percy  Beau- 
mont, "that  she  is  tremendously  literary." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that. 
She  is  certainly  very  clever." 

"  Well,"  said  Beaumont,  "  I  should  have 
supposed  you  would  have  found  that  sort 
of  thing  awfully  slow." 

"  In  point  of  fact,"  Lord  Lambeth  re- 
joined, "  I  find  it  uncommonly  lively." 

209 


After  this  Percy  Beaumont  held  his 
tongue ;  but  on  August  10th  he  wrote 
to  the  Duchess  of  Bays  water.  He  was, 
as  I  have  said,  a  man  of  conscience,  and 
he  had  a  strong,  incorruptible  sense  of 
the  proprieties  of  life.  His  kinsman, 
meanwhile,  was  having  a  great  deal  of 
talk  with  Bessie  Alden — on  the  red  sea- 
rocks  beyond  the  lawn ;  in  the  course  of 
long  island  rides,  with  a  slow  return  in 
the  glowing  twilight ;  on  the  deep  veran- 
da late  in  the  evening.  Lord  Lambeth, 
who  had  stayed  at  many  houses,  had  never 
stayed  at  a  house  in  which  it  was  possible 
for  a  young  man  to  converse  so  frequently 
with  a  young  lady.  This  young  lady  no 
longer  applied  to  Percy  Beaumont  for  in- 
formation concerning  his  lordship.  She 
addressed  herself  directly  to  the  young 
nobleman.  She  asked  him  a  great  many 
questions,  some  of  which  bored  him  a 
little ;  for  he  took  no  pleasure  in  talking 
about  himself. 

"  Lord  Lambeth,"  said  Bessie  Alden, 
"  are  you  a  hereditary  legislator  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  say !"  cried  Lord  Lambeth,  "don't 
make  me  call  myself  such  names  as  that." 

"  But  you  are  a  member  of  Parliament," 
said  the  young  girl. 


210 


"  I  don't  like  the  sound  of  that,  either." 

"  Don't  you  sit  in  the  House  of  Lords  ?" 
Bessie  Alden  went  on. 

"  Very  seldom,"  said  Lord  Lambeth. 

"Is  it  an  important  position?"  she 
asked. 

"  Oh  dear  no,"  said  Lord  Lambeth. 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  very 
grand,"  said  Bessie  Alden,  "to  possess, 
simply  by  an  accident  of  birth,  the  right 
to  make  laws  for  a  great  nation." 

"  Ah,  but  one  doesn't  make  laws.  It's 
a  great  humbug." 

"  I  don't  believe  that,"  the  young  girl 
declared.  "  It  must  be  a  great  privilege, 
and  I  should  think  that  if  one  thought  of 
it  in  the  right  way — from  a  high  point 
of  view — it  would  be  very  inspiring." 

"  The  less  one  thinks  of  it  the  better," 
Lord  Lambeth  affirmed. 

"  I  think  it's  tremendous,"  said  Bessie 
Alden ;  and  on  another  occasion  she  asked 
him  if  he  had  any  tenantry.  Hereupon 
it  was  that,  as  I  have  said,  he  was  a  little 
bored. 

"Do  you  want  to  buy  up  their  leases?" 
he  asked. 

"  Well,  have  you  got  any  livings  ?"  she 

demanded. 

211 


"  Oh,  I  say  !"  he  cried.  "  Have  you 
got  a  clergyman  that  is  looking  out?" 
But  she  made  him  tell  her  that  he  had  a 
castle ;  he  confessed  to  but  one.  It  was 
the  place  in  which  he  had  been  born  and 
brought  up,  and,  as  he  had  an  old-time 
liking  for  it,  he  was  beguiled  into  de- 
scribing it  a  little,  and  saying  it  was  really 
very  jolly.  Bessie  Alden  listened  with 
great  interest,  and  declared  that  she  would 
give  the  world  to  see  such  a  place. 
Whereupon — "It  would  be  awfully  kind 
of  you  to  come  and  stay  there,"  said  Lord 
Lambeth.  He  took  a  vague  satisfaction 
in  the  circumstance  that  Percy  Beaumont 
had  not  heard  him  make  the  remark  I 
have  just  recorded. 

Mr.  Westgate  all  this  time  had  not,  as 
they  said  at  Newport,  "  come  on."  His 
wife  more  than  once  announced  that  she 
expected  him  on  the  morrow;  but  on 
the  morrow  she  wandered  about  a  little, 
with  a  telegram  in  her  jewelled  fingers, 
declaring  it  was  very  tiresome  that  his 
business  detained  him  in  New  York ;  that 
•he  could  only  hope  the  Englishmen  were 


having  a  good  time.  "  I  must  say,"  said 
Mrs.  Westgate,  "  that  it  is  no  thanks  to 
him  if  you  are."  And  she  went  on  to 
explain,  while  she  continued  that  slow- 
paced  promenade  which  enabled  her  well- 
adjusted  skirts  to  display  themselves  so 
advantageously,  that  unfortunately  in 
America  there  was  no  leisure  class.  It 
was  Lord  Lambeth's  theory,  freely  pro- 
pounded when  the  young  men  were  to- 
gether, that  Percy  Beaumont  was  having 
a  very  good  time  with  Mrs.  "Westgate, 
and  that,  under  the  pretext  of  meeting 
for  the  purpose  of  animated  discussion, 
they  were  indulging  in  practices  that 
imparted  a  shade  of  hypocrisy  to  the 
lady's  regret  for  her  husband's  absence. 

"  I  assure  you  we  are  always  discussing 
and  differing,"  said  Percy  Beaumont. 
"  She  is  awfully  argumentative.  Ameri- 
can ladies  certainly  don't  mind  contra- 
dicting you.  Upon  my  word,  I  don't 
think  I  was  ever  treated  so  by  a  woman 
before.  She's  so  devilish  positive." 

Mrs.  Westgate's  positive  quality,  how- 
ever, evidently  had  its  attractions,  for 
Beaumont  was  constantly  at  his  hostess's 
side.  He  detached  himself  one  day  to 
the  extent  of  going  to  New  York  to  talk 


213 


over  the  Tennessee  Central  with  Mr. 
Westgate ;  but  he  was  absent  only  forty- 
eight  hours,  during  which,  with  Mr.  West- 
gate's  assistance,  he  completely  settled 
this  piece  of  business.  "  They  certainly 
do  things  quickly  in  New  York,"  he  ob- 
served to  his  cousin ;  and  he  added  that 
Mr.  Westgate  had  seemed  very  uneasy 
lest  his  wife  should  miss  her  visitor — he 
had  been  in  such  an  awful  hurry  to  send 
him  back  to  her.  "  I'm  afraid  you'll 
never  come  up  to  an  American  husband, 
if  that's  what  the  wives  expect,"  he  said 
to  Lord  Lambeth. 

Mrs.  Westgate,  however,  was  not  to  en- 
joy much  longer  the  entertainment  with 
which  an  indulgent  husband  had  desired 
to  keep  her  provided.  On  August  21st 
Lord  Lambeth  received  a  telegram  from 
his  mother,  requesting  him  to  return  im- 
mediately to  England ;  his  father  had 
been  taken  ill,  and  it  was  his  filial  duty 
to  come  to  him. 

The  young  Englishman  was  visibly  an- 
noyed. "  What  the  deuce  does  it  mean  ?" 
he  asked  of  his  kinsman.  "What  am  I 
to  do?" 

Percy  Beaumont  was  annoyed  as  well ; 
he  had  deemed  it  his  duty,  as  I  have  nar- 

214 


rated,  to  write  to  the  duchess,  but  he  had 
not  expected  that  this  distinguished  wom- 
an would  act  so  promptly  upon  his  hint. 
"  It  means,"  he  said,  "  that  your  father  is 
laid  up.  I  don't  suppose  it's  anything 
serious ;  but  you  have  no  option.  Take 
the  first  steamer ;  but  don't  be  alarmed." 

Lord  Lambeth  made  his  farewells ;  but 
the  few  last  words  that  he  exchanged 
with  Bessie  Alden  are  the  only  ones  that 
have  a  place  in  our  record.  "  Of  course 
I  needn't  assure  you,"  he  said,  "that  if 
you  should  come  to  England  next  year,  I 
expect  to  be  the  first  person  that  you 
inform  of  it." 

Bessie  Alden  looked  at  him  a  little  and 
she  smiled.  "  Oh,  if  we  come  to  Lon- 
don," she  answered,  "  I  should  think  you 
would  hear  of  it." 

Percy  Beaumont  returned  with  his 
cousin,  and  his  sense  of  duty  compelled 
him,  one  windless  afternoon,  in  mid-At- 
lantic, to  say  to  Lord  Lambeth  that  he 
suspected  that  the  .duchess's  telegram 
was  in  part  the  result  of  something  he 
himself  had  written  to  her.  "  I  wrote  to 
her  —  as  I  explicitly  notified  you  I  had 
promised  to  do — that  you  were  extremely 
interested  in  a  little  American  girl." 


215 


Lord  Lambeth  was  extremely  angry, 
and  he  indulged  for  some  moments  in 
the  simple  language  of  indignation.  But 
I  have  said  that  he  was  a  reasonable 
young  man,  and  1  can  give  no  better 
proof  of  it  than  the  fact  that  he  remarked 
to  his  companion  at  the  end  of  half  an 
hour,  "  You  were  quite  right,  after  all. 
I  am  very  much  interested  in  her.  Only, 
to  be  fair,"  he  added,  "  you  should  have 
told  my  mother  also  that  she  is  not — 
seriously — interested  in  me." 

Percy  Beaumont  gave  a  little  laugh. 
"There  is  nothing  so  charming  as  mod- 
esty in  a  young  man  in  your  position. 
That  speech  is  a  capital  proof  that  you 
are  sweet  on  her." 

"She  is  not  interested  —  she  is  not!" 
Lord  Lambeth  repeated. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  his  companion, 
"  you  are  very  far  gone." 


N  point  of  fact,  as  Percy 
Beaumont  would  have  said,  Mrs. 
Westgate  disembarked  on  May 
18th  on  the  British  coast.  She 
was  accompanied  by  her  sister, 
but  she  was  not  attended  by  any 
other  member  of  her  family. 
To  the  deprivation  of  her  husband's  so- 
ciety Mrs.  Westgate  was,  however,  habitu- 
ated ;  she  had  made  half  a  dozen  journeys 
to  Europe  without  him,  and  she  now  ac- 
counted for  his  absence,  to  interrogative 
friends  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  by  al- 
lusion to  the  regrettable  but  conspicuous 
fact  that  in  America  there  was  no  leisure 
class.  The  two  ladies  came  up  to  London 
and  alighted  at  Jones's  Hotel,  where  Mrs. 
Westgate,  who  had  made  on  former  oc- 
casions the  most  agreeable  impression  at 
this  establishment,  received  an  obsequi- 

217 


ous  greeting.  Bessie  Alden  had  felt  much 
excited  about  coming  to  England ;  she 
had  expected  the  "  associations "  would 
be  very  charming,  that  it  would  be  an 
infinite  pleasure  to  rest  her  eyes  upon 
the  things  she  had  read  about  in  the  poets 
and  historians.  She  was  very  fond  of  the 
poets  and  historians,  of  the  picturesque, 
of  the  past,  of  retrospect,  of  mementos 
and  reverberations  of  greatness ;  so  that 
on  corning  into  the  great  English  world, 
where  strangeness  and  familiarity  would 
go  hand  in  hand,  she  was  prepared  for 
a  multitude  of  fresh  emotions.  They 
began  very  promptly — these  tender,  flut- 
tering sensations;  they  began  with  the 
sight  of  the  beautiful  English  landscape, 
whose  dark  richness  was  quickened  and 
brightened  by  the  season ;  with  the  car- 
peted fields  and  flowering  hedge-rows,  as 
she  looked  at  them  from  the  window  of 
the  train  ;  with  the  spires  of  the  rural 
churches  peeping  above  the  rook-haunted 
tree -tops;  with  the  oak-studded  parks, 
the  ancient  homes,  the  cloudy  light,  the 
speech,  the  mariners,  the  thousand  differ- 
ences. Mrs.  Westgate's  impressions  had, 
of  course,  much  less  novelty  and  keen- 
ness, and  she  gave  but  a  wandering  atten- 


218 


tion  to  her  sister's  ejaculations  and  rhap- 
sodies. 

"  You  know  my  enjoyment  of  England 
is  not  so  intellectual  as  Bessie's,"  she  said 
to  several  of  her  friends  in  the  course  of 
her  visit  to  this  country.  "  And  yet  if  it 
is  not  intellectual,  I  can't  say  it  is  phys- 
ical. I  don't  think  I  can  quite  say  what 
it  is — my  enjoyment  of  England."  When 
once  it  was  settled  that  the  two  ladies 
should  come  abroad  and  should  spend  a 
few  weeks  in  England  on  their  way  to 
the  Continent,  they  of  course  exchanged 
a  good  many  allusions  to  their  London 
acquaintance. 

"  It  will  certainly  be  much  nicer  hav- 
ing friends  there,"  Bessie  Alden  had  said 
one  day,  as  she  sat  on  the  sunny  deck  of 
the  steamer  at  her  sister's  feet,  on  a  large 
blue  rug. 

"Whom  do  you  mean  by  friends?" 
Mrs.  Westgate  asked. 

"All  those  English  gentlemen  whom 
you  have  known  and  entertained.  Cap- 
tain Littledale,  for  instance.  And  Lord 
Lambeth  and  Mr.  Beaumont,"  added  Bes- 
sie Alden. 

"Do  you  expect  them  to  give  us  a 
very  grand  reception  ?" 


219 


Bessie  reflected  a  moment;  she  was  ad- 
dicted, as  we  know,  to  reflection.  "  Well, 
yes." 

"My  poor, sweet  child!"  murmured  her 
sister. 

"What  have  I  said  that  is  so  silly?" 
asked  Bessie. 

"  You  are  a  little  too  simple ;  just  a 
little.  It  is  very  becoming,  but  it  pleases 
people  at  your  expense." 

"I  am  certainly  too  simple  to  under- 
stand you,"  said  Bessie. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  a  story  ?"  asked  her 
sister. 

"If  you  would  be  so  good.  That  is 
what  they  do  to  amuse  simple  people." 

Mrs.  Westgate  consulted  her  memory, 
while  her  companion  sat  gazing  at  the 
shining  sea.  "  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the 
Duke  of  Green-Erin?" 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Bessie. 

"  Well,  it's  no  matter,"  her  sister  went 
on. 

"  It's  a  proof  of  my  simplicity." 

"  My  story  is  meant  to  illustrate  that  of 
some  other  people,"  said  Mrs.  West- 
gate.  "  The  Duke  of  Green-Erin  is 
what  they  call  in  England  a  great 
swell,  and  some  five  years  ago  he  came 

220 


to  America.  He  spent  most  of  his  time  in 
New  York,  and  in  New  York  he  spent  his 
days  and  his  nights  at  the  Butterworths'. 
You  have  heard,  at  least,  of  the  Butter- 
worths.  Bien.  They  did  everything  in 
the  world  for  him  —  they  turned  them- 
selves inside  out.  They  gave  him  a  doz- 
en dinner-parties  and  balls,  and  were  the 
means  of  his  being  invited  to  fifty  more. 
At  first  he  used  to  come  into  Mrs.  Butter- 
worth's  box  at  the  opera  in  a  tweed  trav- 
elling suit ;  but  some  one  stopped  that. 
At  any  rate,  he  had  a  beautiful  time,  and 
they  parted  the  best  friends  in  the  world. 
Two  years  elapse,  and  the  Butterworths 
come  abroad  and  go  to  London.  The 
first  thing  they  see  in  all  the  papers — in 
England  those  things  are  in  the  most 
prominent  place  —  is  that  the  Duke  of 
Green-Erin  has  arrived  in  town  for  the 
season.  They  wait  a  little,  and  then  Mr. 
Butterworth  —  as  polite  as  ever — goes 
and  leaves  a  card.  They  wait  a  little 
more ;  the  visit  is  not  returned ;  they 
wait  three  weeks — silence  de  mort — the 
duke  gives  no  sign.  The  Butterworths 
see  a  lot  of  other  people,  put  down  the 
Duke  of  Green-Erin  as  a  rude,  ungrate- 
ful man,  and  forget  all  about  him.  One 


221 


fine  day  they  go  to  the  Ascot  races,  and 
there  they  meet  him  face  to  face.  He 
stares  a  moment,  and  then  comes  tip  to 
Mr.  Butterworth,  taking  something  from 
his  pocket-book — something  which  proves 
to  be  a  bank-note.  '  I'm  glad  to  see  you, 
Mr.  Butterworth,'  he  says,  '  so  that  I  can 
pay  you  that  £10  I  lost  to  you  in  ~New 
York.  I  saw  the  other  day  you  remem- 
bered our  bet;  here  are  the  £10,  Mr. 
Butterworth.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Butter- 
worth.'  And  off  he  goes,  and  that's  the 
last  they  see  of  the  Duke  of  Green-Erin." 

"  Is  that  your  story  ?"  asked  Bessie 
Alden. 

" Don't  you  think  it's  interesting?"  her 
sister  replied. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  the  young  girl. 

"Ah,"  cried  Mrs.  Westgate,  "  you  are 
not  so  simple,  after  all!  Believe  it  or 
not,  as  you  please ;  there  is  no  smoke 
without  fire." 

"  Is  that  the  way,"  asked  Bessie,  after 
a  moment,  "  that  you  expect  your  friends 
to  treat  you  ?" 

"  I  defy  them  to  treat  me  very  ill,  be- 
cause I  shall  not  give  them  the  oppor- 
tunity. With  the  best  will  in  the  world, 
in  that  case  they  can't  be  very  offensive." 


Bessie  Alden  was  silent  a  moment.  "I 
don't  see  what  makes  you  talk  that  way," 
she  said.  "  The  English  are  a  great  peo- 
ple." 

"Exactly;  and  that  is  just  the  way 
they  have  grown  great — by  dropping  you 
when  you  have  ceased  to  be  useful.  Peo- 
ple say  they  are  not  clever;  but  I  think 
they  are  very  clever." 

"  You  know  you  have  liked  them — all 
the  Englishmen  you  have  seen,"  said 
Bessie. 

"They  have  liked  me,"  her  sister  re- 
joined ;  "  it  would  be  more  correct  to 
say  that.  And,  of  course,  one  likes  that." 

Bessie  Alden  resumed  for  some  mo- 
ments her  studies  in  sea-green.  "Well," 
she  said,  "  whether  they  like  me  or  not,  I 
mean  to  like  them.  And,  happily,"  she 
added,  "  Lord  Lambeth  does  not  owe  me 
£10." 

During  the  first  few  days  after  their 
arrival  at  Jones's  Hotel  our  charming 
Americans  were  much  occupied  with 
what  they  would  have  called  looking 
about  them.  They  found  occasion  to 
make  a  large  number  of  purchases,  and 
their  opportunities  for  conversation  were 
such  only  as  were  offered  by  the  defer- 

223 


ential  London  shopmen.  Bessie  Alden, 
even  in  driving  from  the  station,  took  an 
immense  fancy  to  the  British  metropolis, 
and  at  the  risk  of  exhibiting  her  as  a 
young  woman  of  vulgar  tastes,  it  must 
be  recorded  that  for  a  considerable  period 
she  desired  no  higher  pleasure  than  to 
drive  about  the  crowded  streets  in  a  han- 
som cab.  To  her  attentive  eyes  they  were 
full  of  a  strange,  picturesque  life,  and  it 
is  at  least  beneath  the  dignity  of  our  his- 
toric muse  to  enumerate  the  trivial  ob- 
jects and  incidents  which  this  simple 
young  lady  from  Boston  found  so  enter- 
taining. It  may  be  freely  mentioned, 
however,  that  whenever,  after  a  round  of 
visits  in  Bond  Street  and  Regent  Street, 
she  was  about  to  return  with  her  sister 
to  Jones's  Hotel,  she  made  an  earnest 
request  that  they  should  be  driven  home 
by  way  of  Westminster  Abbey.  She  had 
begun  by  asking  whether  it  would  not 
be  possible  to  take  in  the  Tower  on  the 
way  to  their  lodgings ;  but  it  happened 
that  at  a  more  primitive  stage  of  her 
culture  Mrs.  Westgate  had  paid  a  visit 
to  this  venerable  monument,  which  she 
spoke  of  ever  afterwards  vaguely  as  a 
dreadful  disappointment ;  so  that  she  ex- 

224 


pressed  the  liveliest  disapproval  of  any 
attempt  to  combine  historical  researches 
with  the  purchase  of  hair -brushes  and 
note-paper.  The  most  she  would  consent 
to  do  in  this  line  was  to  spend  half  an 
hour  at  Madame  Tussaud's,  where  she  saw 
several  dusty  wax  effigies  of  members  of 
the  royal  family.  She  told  Bessie  that 
if  she  wished  to  go  to  the  Tower  she 
must  get  some  one  else  to  take  her. 
Bessie  expressed  hereupon  an  earnest  dis- 
position to  go  alone ;  but  upon  this  pro- 
posal as  well,  Mrs.  Westgate  sprinkled 
cold  water. 

"  Remember,"  she  said,  "  that  you  are 
not  in  your  innocent  little  Boston.  It  is 
not  a  question  of  walking  up  and  down 
Beacon  Street."  Then  she  went  on  to 
explain  that  there  were  two  classes  of 
American  girls  in  Europe  —  those  that 
walked  about  alone  and  those  that  did 
not.  "  You  happen  to  belong,  my  dear," 
she  said  to  her  sister,  "  to  the  class  that 
does  not." 

"  It  is  only,"  answered  Bessie,  laugh- 
ing, "because  you  happen  to  prevent 
me."  And  she  devoted  much  private 
meditation  to  this  question  of  effecting  a 
visit  to  the  Tower  of  London. 

225 


Suddenly  it  seemed  as  if  the  problem 
might  be  solved ;  the  two  ladies  at  Jones's 
Hotel  received  a  visit  from  Willie  Wood- 
ley.  Such  was  the  social  appellation  of 
a  young  American  who  had  sailed  from 
New  York  a  few  days  after  their  own 
departure,  and  who,  having  the  privilege 
of  intimacy  with  them  in  that  city,  had 
lost  no  time,  on  his  arrival  in  London,  in 
coming  to  pay  them  his  respects.  He 
had,  in  fact,  gone  to  see  them  directly 
after  going  to  see  his  tailor,  than  which 
there  can  be  no  greater  exhibition  of 
promptitude  on  the  part  of  a  young 
American  who  had  just  alighted  at  the 
Charing  Cross  Hotel.  He  was  a  slim, 
pale  youth,  of  the  most  amiable  dispo- 
sition, famous  for  the  skill  with  which 
he  led  the  "  German "  in  'New  York. 
Indeed,  by  the  young  ladies  who  habitu- 
ally figured  in  this  Terpsichorean  revel 
he  was  believed  to  be  "  the  best  dancer 
in  the  world  ;"  it  was  in  these  terms  that 
he  was  always  spoken  of,  and  that  his 
identity  was  indicated.  He  was  the  gen- 
tlest, softest  young  man  it  was  possible 
to  meet ;  he  was  beautifully  dressed — 
"in  the  English  style"  —  and  he  knew 
an  immense  deal  about  London.  He 

226 


had  been  at  Newport  during  the  previ- 
ous summer,  at  the  time  of  our  young 
Englishmen's  visit,  and  he  took  extreme 
pleasure  in  the  society  of  Bessie  Alden, 
whom  he  always  addressed  as  "  Miss  Bes- 
sie." She  immediately  arranged  with 
him,  in  the  presence  of  her  sister,  that  lie 
should  conduct  her  to  the  scene  of  Anne 
Boleyn's  execution. 

"  You  may  do  as  you  please,"  said  Mrs. 
Westgate.  "  Only — if  you  desire  the  in- 
formation— it  is  not  the  custom  here  for 
young  ladies  to  knock  about  London  with 
young  men." 

"  Miss  Bessie  has  waltzed  with  me 
so  often,"  observed  Willie  Woodley ; 
"she  can  surely  go  out  with  me  in  a 
hansom !" 

"I  consider  waltzing,"  said  Mrs. 
Westgate,  "  the  most  innocent  pleasure 
of  our  time." 

"It's  a  compliment  to  our  time!" 
exclaimed  the  young  man,  with  a  little 
laugh  in  spite  of  himself. 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should  regard 
what  is  done  here,"  said  Bessie  Alden. 
"Why  should  I  suffer  the  restrictions 
of  a  society  of  which  I  enjoy  none  of 
the  privileges?" 

227 


"  That's  very  good — very  good,"  mur- 
mured Willie  Woodley. 

"  Oh,  go  to  the  Tower,  and  feel  the 
axe,  if  you  like,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate.  "  I 
consent  to  your  going  with  Mr.  Woodley ; 
but  I  should  not  let  you  go  with  an  Eng- 
lishman." 

"  Miss  Bessie  wouldn't  care  to  go  with 
an  Englishman  !"  Mr.  Woodley  declared, 
with  a  faint  asperity  that  was,  perhaps, 
not  unnatural  in  a  young  man,  who,  dress- 
ing in  the  manner  that  I  have  indicated, 
and  knowing  a  great  deal,  as  I  have  said, 
about  London,  saw  no  reason  for  drawing 
these  sharp  distinctions.  He  agreed  upon 
a  day  with  Miss  Bessie  —  a  day  of  that 
same  week. 

An  ingenious  mind  might,  perhaps, 
trace  a  connection  between  the  young 
girl's  allusion  to  her  destitution  of  social 
privileges  and  a  question  she  asked  on 
the  morrow,  as  she  sat  with  her  sister  at 
lunch. 

"  Don't  you  mean  to  write  to — to  any 
one?"  said  Bessie. 

"  I  wrote  this  morning  to  Captain  Lit- 
tledale,"  Mrs.  Westgate  replied. 

"But  Mr.  Woodley  said  that  Captain 
Littledale  had  gone  to  India." 

228 


"  He  said  he  thought  he  had  heard  so ; 
he  knew  nothing  about  it." 

For  a  moment  Bessie  Alden  said  noth- 
ing more ;  then,  at  last,  "  And  don't  you 
intend  to  write  to — to  Mr.  Beaumont?" 
she  inquired. 

"  You  mean  to  Lord  Lambeth,"  said 
her  sister. 

"  I  said  Mr.  Beaumont,  because  he  was 
so  good  a  friend  of  yours." 

Mrs.  Westgate  looked  at  the  young 
girl  with  sisterly  candor.  "  I  don't  care 
two  straws  for  Mr.  Beaumont." 

"  You  were  certainly  very  nice  to  him." 

"  I  am  nice  to  every  one,"  said  Mrs. 
Westgate,  simply. 

"  To  every  one  but  me,"  rejoined 
Bessie,  smiling. 

Her  sister  continued  to  look  at  her; 
then,  at  last,  "  Are  you  in  love  with  Lord 
Lambeth?"  she  asked. 

The  young  girl  stared  a  moment,  and 
the  question  was  apparently  too  humor- 
ous even  to  make  her  blush.  "  Not  that 
I  know  of,"  she  answered. 

229 


"  Because,  if  you  are,"  Mrs.  Westgate 
went  on,  "  I  shall  certainly  not  send  for 
him." 

"  That  proves  what  I  said,"  declared 
Bessie,  smiling — "  that  you  are  not  nice 
to  me." 

"  It  would  be  a  poor  service,  my  dear 
child,"  said  her  sister. 

"In  what  sense?  There  is  nothing 
against  Lord  Lambeth  that  I  know  of." 

Mrs.  Westgate  was  silent  a  moment. 
"  You  are  in  love  writh  him,  then  ?" 

Bessie  stared  again ;  but  this  time  she 
blushed  a  little.  "  Ah !  if  you  won't  be 
serious,"  she  answered,  "  we  will  not  men- 
tion him  again." 

For  some  moments  Lord  Lambeth  was 
not  mentioned  again,  and  it  was  Mrs. 
Westgate  who,  at  the  end  of  this  period, 
reverted  to  him.  "  Of  course  I  will  let 
him  know  we  are  here,  because  1  think 
he  would  be  hurt — justly  enough — if  we 
should  go  away  without  seeing  him.  It 
is  fair  to  give  him  a  chance  to  come  and 
thank  me  for  the  kindness  we  showed 
him.  But  I  don't  want  to  seem  eager." 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Bessie,  with  a 
little  laugh. 

"  Though  I  confess,"  added  her  sister, 

230 


"that  I  am  curious  to  see  how  he  will 
behave." 

"  He  behaved  very  well  at  Newport." 

"  Newport  is  not  London.  At  New- 
port he  could  do  as  he  liked ;  but  here  it 
is  another  affair.  He  has  to  have  an  eye 
to  consequences." 

"If  he  had  more  freedom,  then,  at 
Newport,"  argued  Bessie,  "  it  is  the  more 
to  his  credit  that  he  behaved  well ;  and  if 
he  has  to  be  so  careful  here,  it  is  possible 
he  will  behave  even  better." 

"Better  —  better,"  repeated  her  sister. 
"  My  dear  child,  what  is  your  point  of 
view  ?" 

"How  do  you  mean  —  my  point  of 
view  ?" 

"  Don't  you  care  for  Lord  Lambeth — a 
little?" 

This  time  Bessie  Alden  was  displeased  ; 
she  slowly  got  up  from  the  table,  turning 
her  face  away  from  her  sister.  "  You 
will  oblige  me  by  not  talking  so,"  she 
said. 

Mrs.  Westgate  sat  watching  her  for 
some  moments  as  she  moved  slowly  about 
the  room  and  went  and  stood  at  the  win- 
dow. "I  will  write  to  him  this  after- 
noon," she  said  at  last. 


"  Do  as  you  please  !"  Bessie  answered  ; 
and  presently  she  turned  round.  "  I  am 
not  afraid  to  say  that  I  like  Lord  Lam- 
beth. I  like  him  very  much." 

"  He  is  not  clever,"  Mrs.  Westgate  de- 
clared. 

"Well,  there  have  been  clever  people 
whom  I  have  disliked,"  said  Bessie  Alden ; 
"  so  that  I  suppose  I  may  like  a  stupid 
one.  Besides,  Lord  Lambeth  is  not 
stupid." 

"  Not  so  stupid  as  he  looks !"  exclaimed 
her  sister,  smiling. 

"  If  I  were  in  love  with  Lord  Lambeth, 
as  you  said  just  now,  it  would  be  bad 
policy  on  your  part  to  abuse  him." 

"  My  dear  child,  don't  give  me  lessons 
in  policy  !"  cried  Mrs.  Westgate.  "  The 
policy  I  mean  to  follow  is  very  deep." 

The  young  girl  began  to  walk  about 
the  room  again ;  then  she  stopped  before 
her  sister.  "  I  have  never  heard  in  the 
course  of  five  minutes,"  she  said,  "  so 
many  hints  and  innuendoes.  I  wish  you 
would  tell  me  in  plain  English  what  you 
mean." 

"I  mean  that  you  may  be  much  an- 
noyed." 

"  That  is  still  only  a  hint,"  said  Bessie. 


Her  sister  looked  at  her,  hesitating  an 
instant.  "  It  will  be  said  of  you  that  you 
have  come  after  Lord  Lambeth — that  you 
followed  him." 

Bessie  Alden  threw  back  her  pretty 
head  like  a  startled  hind,  and  a  look  flashed 
into  her  face  that  made  Mrs.  Westgate 
rise  from  her  chair.  "Who  says  such 
things  as  that?"  she  demanded. 

"People  here." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Bessie. 

"  You  have  a  very  convenient  faculty 
of  doubt.  But  my  policy  will  be,  as  I 
say,  very  deep.  I  shall  leave  you  to  find 
out  this  kind  of  thing  for  yourself." 

Bessie  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  sister, 
and  Mrs.  Westgate  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment there  were  tears  in  them.  "Do 
they  talk  that  way  here  ?"  she  asked. 

"  You  will  see.  I  shall  leave  you 
alone." 

"Don't  leave  me  alone,"  said  Bessie  Al- 
den. "  Take  me  away." 

"  No ;  I  want  to  see  what  you  make  of 
it,"  her  sister  continued. 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  You  will  understand  after  Lord  Lam- 
beth has  come,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate,  with 
a  little  laugh. 


233 


The  two  ladies  had  arranged  that  on 
this  afternoon  Willie  Woodley  should  go 
with  them  to  Hyde  Park,  where  Bessie 
Alden  expected  to  derive  much  entertain- 
ment from  sitting  on  a  little  green  chair, 
under  the  great  trees,  beside  Rotten  Row. 
The  want  of  a  suitable  escort  had  hitherto 
rendered  this  pleasure  inaccessible ;  but 
no  escort  now,  for  such  an  expedition, 
could  have  been  more  suitable  than  their 
devoted  young  countryman,  whose  mis- 
sion in  life,  it  might  almost  be  said,  was 
to  find  chairs  for  ladies,  and  who  appeared 
on  the  stroke  of  half  past  five  with  a 
white  camellia  in  his  button-hole. 

"  I  have  written  to  Lord  Lambeth,  my 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate  to  her  sister, 
on  coining  into  the  room  where  Bessie 
Alden,  drawing  on  her  long  gray  gloves, 
was  entertaining  their  visitor. 

Bessie  said  nothing,  but  Willie  Wood- 
ley  exclaimed  that  his  lordship  was  in 
town  ;  he  had  seen  his  name  in  the  Morn- 
ing Post. 

"Do  you  read  the  Morning  Post?" 
asked  Mrs.  Westgate. 

"Oh  yes ;  it's  great  fun,"  Willie  Wood- 
ley  affirmed. 
"I  want  so  to  see  it,"  said  Bes- 

234 


sie ;  "  there  is  so  much  about  it  in  Thack- 
eray." 

"  I  will  send  it  to  you  every  morning," 
said  Willie  Woodley. 

He  found  them  what  Bessie  Alden 
thought  excellent  places,  under  the  great 
trees,  beside  the  famous  avenue  whose 
humors  had  been  made  familiar  to  the 
young  girl's  childhood  by  the  pictures  in 
Punch.  The  day  was  bright  and  warm, 
and  the  crowd  of  riders  and  spectators, 
and  the  great  procession  of  carriages, 
were  proportionately  dense  and  brilliant. 
The  scene  bore  the  stamp  of  the  London 
Season  at  its  height,  and  Bessie  Alden 
found  more  entertainment  in  it  than  she 
was  able  to  express  to  her  companions. 
She  sat  silent,  under  her  parasol,  and  her 
imagination,  according  to  its  wont,  let  it- 
self loose  into  the  great  changing  assem- 
blage of  striking  and  suggestive  figures. 
They  stirred  up  a  host  of  old  impressions 
and  preconceptions,  and  she  found  her- 
self fitting  a  history  to  this  person  and  a 
theory  to  that,  and  making  a  place  for 
them  all  in  her  little  private  museum  of 
types.  But  if  she  said  little,  her  sister  on 
one  side  and  Willie  Woodley  on  the  other 
expressed  themselves  in  lively  alternation. 


"Look  at  that  green  dress  with  blue 
flounces,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate.  "  Qudle 
toilette  /" 

"  That's  the  Marquis  of  Blackborough," 
said  the  young  man  —  "the  one  in  the 
white  coat.  I  heard  him  speak  the  other 
night  in  the  House  of  Lords ;  it  was  some- 
thing about  ramrods;  he  called  them 
wamwods.  He's  an  awful  swell." 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  the 
way  they  are  pinned  back  ?"  Mrs.  West- 
gate  resumed.  "  They  never  know  where 
to  stop." 

"They  do  nothing  but  stop,"  said 
Willie  Woodley.  "It  prevents  them 
from  walking.  Here  comes  a  great  ce- 
lebrity, Lady  Beatrice  Bellevue.  She's 
awfully  fast ;  see  what  little  steps  she 
takes." 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Westgate  pur- 
sued, "  I  hope  you  are  getting  some  ideas 
for  your  couturiere  ?" 

"  I  am  getting  plenty  of  ideas,"  said 
Bessie,  "  but  I  don't  know  that  my  cou- 
turiere would  appreciate  them." 

Willie  Woodley  presently  perceived  a 
friend  on  horseback,  who  drove  up  beside 
the  barrier  of  the  Row  and  beckoned  to 
him.  He  went  forward,  and  the  crowd 


236 


of  pedestrians  closed  about  him,  so  that 
for  some  ten  minutes  he  was  hidden  from 
sight.  At  last  he  reappeared,  bringing 
a  gentleman  with  him  —  a  gentleman 
whom  Bessie  at  first  supposed  to  be  his 
friend  dismounted.  But  at  a  second 
glance  she  found  herself  looking  at  Lord 
Lambeth,  who  was  shaking  hands  with 
her  sister. 

"  I  found  him  over  there,"  said 
Willie     Woodley,  _^ 

"and  I  told  him  you 
were  here." 

And  then  Lord 
Lambeth,  touching 
his  hat  a  little,  shook 
hands  with  Bessie. 
"Fancy  your  being 
here!"  he  said.  He 
was  blushing  and 
smiling;  he  look- 
ed very  hand- 
some, and  he  had 
a  kind  of  splen- 
dor that  he  had  not  had  in  America.  Bes- 
sie Alden's  imagination,  as  we  know,  was 
just  then  in  exercise;  so  that  the  tall 
young  Englishman,  as  he  stood  there  look- 
ing down  at  her,  had  the  benefit  of  it. 


237 


"  He  is  handsomer  and  more  splendid 
than  anything  I  have  ever  seen,"  she  said 
to  herself.  And  then  she  remembered 
that  he  was  a  marquis,  and  she  thought  he 
looked  like  a  marquis. 

"  I  say,  you  know,"  he  cried,  "  you 
ought  to  have  let  a  man  know  you  were 
here!" 

"  I  wrote  to  you  an  hour  ago,"  said 
Mrs.  Westgate. 

"  Doesn't  all  the  world  know  it  '?"  asked 
Bessie,  smiling. 

"  I  assure  you  I  didn't  know  it !"  cried 
Lord  Lambeth.  "  Upon  my  honor,  I 
hadn't  heard  of  it.  Ask  Woodley,  now ; 
had  I,  Woodley?" 

"  Well,  T  think  you  are  rather  a  hum- 
bug," said  Willie  Woodley. 

"  You  don't  believe  that — do  you,  Miss 
Alderi  ?"  asked  his  lordship.  "  You  don't 
believe  I'm  a  humbug,  eh  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Bessie,  "  I  don't." 

"  You  are  too  tall  to  stand  up,  Lord  Lam- 
beth," Mrs.  Westgate  observed.  "You 
are  only  tolerable  when  you  sit  down. 
Be  so  good  as  to  get  a  chair." 

He  found  a  chair  and  placed  it  side- 
wise,  close  to  the  two  ladies.  "If  I 
hadn't  met  Woodley  I  should  never  have 

238 


found  you,"  he   went   on.     "  Should   I, 
Woodley  ?" 

"  Well,  I  guess  not,"  said  the  young 
American. 

"  Not  even  with  my  letter  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Westgate. 

"  Ah,  well,  I  haven't  got  your  letter 
yet ;  I  suppose  I  shall  get  it  this  even- 
ing. It  was  awfully  kind  of  you  to 
write." 

"So  I  said  to  Bessie,"  observed  Mrs. 
Westgate. 

"  Did  she  say  so,  Miss  Alden  ?"  Lord 
Lambeth  inquired.  "I  dare  say  you 
have  been  here  a  month." 

"We  have  been  here  three,"  said  Mrs. 
Westgate. 

"  Have  you  been  here  three 
months  ?"  the  young  man 
asked  again  of  Bessie. 

"It  seems  a  long  time," 
Bessie  answered. 

"  I  say,  after  that  you  had 
better  not   call  me  a 
humbug !"  cried  Lord 
Lambeth.     "  I  have 
only  been  in  town 
three  weeks;  but  you 
must  have   been   hid- 


ing  away ;  I  haven't  seen  you  any- 
where." 

"  Where  should  you  have  seen  us — 
where  should  we  have  gone  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Westgate. 

"You  should  have  gone  to  Ilurling- 
ham,"  said  Woodley. 

"  No ;  let  Lord  Lambeth  tell  us,"  Mrs. 
Westgate  insisted. 

"  There  are  plenty  of  places  to  go  to," 
said  Lord  Lambeth ;  "  each  one  stupider 
than  the  other.  I  mean  people's  houses ; 
they  send  you  cards." 

"  ~No  one  has  sent  us  cards,"  said  Bessie. 

"  We  are  very  quiet,"  her  sister  de- 
clared. "  We  are  here  as  travellers." 

"  We  have  been  to  Madame  Tussaud's," 
Bessie  pursued. 

"  Oh,  I  say !"  cried  Lord  Lambeth. 

"  We  thought  we  should  find  your  im- 
age there,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate — "  yours 
and  Mr.  Beaumont's." 

"  In  the  Chamber  of  Horrors  ?"  laughed 
the  young  man. 

"It  did  duty  very  well  for  a  party," 
said  Mrs.  Westgate.  "  All  the  women 
were  decolletees,  and  many  of  the  figures 
looked  as  if  they  could  speak  if  they 
tried." 

240 


"Upon  my  word,"  Lord  Lambeth  re- 
joined, "  you  see  people  at  London  parties 
that  look  as  if  they  couldn't  speak  if  they 
tried." 

"  Do  yon  think  Mr.  Woodley  could  find 
us  Mr.  Beaumont  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Westgate. 

Lord  Lambeth  stared  and  looked  round 
him.  "  I  dare  say  he  could.  Beaumont 
often  comes  here.  Don't  you  think  you 
could  find  him,  Woodley  ?  Make  a  dive 
into  the  crowd." 

"  Thank  you ;  I  have  had  enough  div- 
ing," said  Willie  Woodley.  "  I  will  wait 
till  Mr.  Beaumont  comes  to  the  surface." 

"I  will  bring  him  to  see  you,"  said 
Lord  Lambeth;  "where  are  you  stay- 
ing?" 

u  You  will  find  the  address  in  my  let- 
ter— Jones's  Hotel." 

"Oh,  one  of  those  places  just  out  of 
Piccadilly  ?  Beastly  hole,  isn't  it  ?"  Lord 
Lambeth  inquired. 

"I  believe  it's  the  best  hotel  in  London," 
said  Mrs.  Westgate. 

"  But  they  give  you  awful  rubbish  to 
eat,  don't  they  ?"  his  lordship  went  on. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate. 

"  I  always  feel  so  sorry  for  the  people 
that  come  up  to  town  and  go  to  live  in 

241 


those  places,"  continued  the  young  man. 
"  They  eat  nothing  but  filth." 

"  Oh,  I  say  !"  cried  Willie  Woodley. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  like  London,  Miss 
Alden  ?"  Lord  Lambeth  asked,  unper- 
turbed by  this  ejaculation. 

"  I  think  it's  grand,"  said  Bessie  Alden. 

"My  sister  likes  it,  in  spite  of  the 
1  filth!'"  Mrs.  Westgate  exclaimed. 

"  I  hope  you  are  going  to  stay  a  long 
time." 

"  As  long  as  I  can,"  said  Bessie. 

"  And  where  is  Mr.  Westgate  ?"  asked 
Lord  Lambeth  of  this  gentleman's  wife. 

"  He's  where  he  always  is — in  that  tire- 
some New  York." 

"He  must  be  tremendously  clever," 
said  the  young  man. 

"  I  suppose  he  is,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate. 

Lord  Lambeth  sat  for  nearly  an  hour 
with  his  American  friends ;  but  it  is  not 
our  purpose  to  relate  their  conversation  in 
full.  He  addressed  a  great  many  remarks 
to  Bessie  Alden,  and  finally  turned  tow- 
ards her  altogether,  while  Willie  Wood- 
ley  entertained  Mrs.  Westgate.  Bessie 
herself  said  very  little ;  she  was  on  her 
guard,  thinking  of  what  her  sister  had  said 
to  her  at  lunch.  Little  by  little,  however, 

242 


she  intersted  herself  in  Lord  Lambeth 
again,  as  she  had  done  at  Newport ;  only 
it  seemed  to  her  that  here  he  might  be- 
come more  interesting.  He  would  be  an 
unconscious  part  of  the  antiquity,  the  im- 
pressiveness,  the  picturesqneness,  of  Eng- 
land ;  and  poor  Bessie  Alden,  like  many 
a  Yankee  maiden,  was  terribly  at  the 
mercy  of  picturesqueness. 

"  I  have  often  wished  I  were  at  New- 
port again,"  said  the  young  man.  "  Those 
days  I  spent  at  your  sister's  were  awfully 

jolly." 

"  We  enjoyed  them  very  much  ;  I  hope 
your  father  is  better." 

"  Oh  dear,  yes.  When  I  got  to  Eng- 
land he  was  out  grouse-shooting.  It  was 
what  you  call  in  America  a  gigantic  fraud. 
My  mother  had  got  nervous.  My  three 
weeks  at  Newport  seemed  like  a  happy 
dream." 

"America  certainly  is  very  different 
from  England,"  said  Bessie. 

"  I  hope  you  like  England  better,  eh  ?" 
Lord  Lambeth  rejoined,  almost  persua- 
sively. 

"  No  Englishman  can  ask  that  seriously 
of  a  person  of  another  country." 

Her  companion   looked  at  her  for  a 


243 


moment.  "You  mean  it's  a  matter  of 
course  ?" 

"If  I  were  English,"  said  Bessie,  "it 
would  certainly  seem  to  me  a  matter  of 
course  that  every  one  should  be  a  good 
patriot." 

"  Oh  dear,  yes,  patriotism  is  every- 
thing," said  Lord  Lambeth,  not  quite 
following,  but  very  contented.  "  Now, 
what  are  you  going  to  do  here  ?" 

"  On  Thursday  I  am  going  to  the 
Tower." 

" The  Tower?" 

"  The  Tower  of  London.  Did  you 
never  hear  of  it  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  have  been  there,"  said  Lord 
Lambeth.  "I  was  taken  there  by  my 
governess  when  I  was  six  years  old.  It's 
a  rum  idea,  your  going  there." 

"  Do  give  me  a  few  more  rum  ideas," 
said  Bessie.  "  I  want  to  see  everything 
of  that  sort.  I  am  going  to  Hampton 
Court,  and  to  Windsor,  and  to  the  Dul- 
wich  Gallery." 

Lord  Lambeth  seemed  greatly  amused. 
"  I  wonder  you  don't  go  to  the  Rosher- 
ville  Gardens." 

"  Are  they  interesting  ?"  asked  Bessie. 

"  Oh,  wonderful !" 

244 


"  Are  they  very  old  ?  That's  all  I  care 
for,"  said  Bessie. 

u  They  are  tremendously  old  ;  they  are 
falling  to  ruins." 

"  I  think  there  is  nothing  so  charming 
as  an  old  ruinous  garden,"  said  the  young 
girl.  "  We  must  certainly  go  there." 

Lord  Lambeth  broke  out  into  merri- 
ment. "  I  say,  Woodley,"  lie  cried,"  here's 
Miss  Alden  wants  to  go  to  the  Kosher- 
ville  Gardens !" 

Willie  Woodley  looked  a  little  blank ; 
he  was  caught  in  the  fact  of  ignorance  of 
an  apparently  conspicuous  feature  of  Lon- 
don life.  But  in  a  moment  he  turned  it 
off.  "  Very  well,"  he  said,  "  I'll  write 
for  a  permit." 

Lord  Lambeth's  exhilaration  increased. 
"  Gad,  I  believe  you  Americans  would  go 
anywhere !"  he  cried. 

"We  wish  to  go  to  Parliament,"  said 
Bessie.  "  That's  one  of  the  first  things." 

"  Oh,  it  would  bore  you  to  death !" 
cried  the  young  man. 

"  We  wish  to  hear  you  speak." 

"I  never  speak — except  to  young  la- 
dies," said  Lord  Lambeth,  smiling. 

Bessie  Alden  looked  at  him  a  while, 
smiling,  too,  in  the  shadow  of  her  para- 


245 


sol.  "  You  are  very  strange,"  she  mur- 
mured. "I  don't  think  I  approve  of 
yon." 

"Ah,  now,  don't  be  severe,  Miss  Al- 
den,"  said  Lord  Larnbeth,  smiling  still 
more.  "  Please  don't  be  severe.  I  want 
you  to  like  me — awfully." 

"  To  like  you  awfully  ?  You  must  not 
laugh  at  me,  then,  when  I  make  mistakes. 
I  consider  it  my  right,  as  a  free-born 
American,  to  make  as  many  mistakes  as 
I  choose." 

"Upon  my  word  I  didn't  laugh  at 
you,"  said  Lord  Lambeth. 

"  And  not  only  that,"  Bessie  went  on ; 
"  but  I  hold  that  all  my  mistakes  shall  be 
set  down  to  my  credit.  You  must  think 
the  better  of  me  for  them." 

"  I  can't  think  better  of  you  than  I  do," 
the  young  man  declared. 

Bessie  Alden  looked  at  him  a  moment. 
"  You  certainly  speak  very  well  to  young 
ladies.  But  why  don't  you  address  the 
House  ?— isn't  that  what  they  call  it  ?" 

"  Because  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  said 
Lord  Lambeth. 

"  Haven't  you  a  great  position  ?"  asked 
Bessie  Alden. 

He  looked  a  moment  at  the  back  of  his 


glove.  "  I'll  set  that  down,"  he  said,  "  as 
one  of  your  mistakes — to  your  credit." 
And  as  if  he  disliked  talking  about  his 
position,  he  changed  the  subject.  "  I 
wish  you  would  let  me  go  with  you  to 
the  Tower,  and  to  Hampton  Court,  and 
to  all  those  other  places." 

"  We  shall  be  most  happy,"  said  Bessie. 

"And  of  course  I  shall  be  delighted  to 
show  you  the  House  of  Lords — some  day 
that  suits  you.  There  are  a  lot  of  things 
I  want  to  do  for  you.  I  want  to  make 
you  have  a  good  time.  And  I  should 
like  very  much  to  present  some  of  my 
friends  to  you,  if  it  wouldn't  bore  you. 
Then  it  would  be  awfully  kind  of  you  to 
come  down  to  Branches." 

"We  are  much  obliged  to  you,  Lord 
Lambeth,"  said  Bessie. 
"What  is  Branches?" 

"It's  a  house   in   the 
country.     I  think  you 
might  like  it." 

Willie  Woodley  and 
Mrs.  Westgate   at  this 


**/ 


moment  were  sitting  in  silence,  and  the 
young  man's  ear  caught  these  last  words 
of  Lord  Lambeth's.  "  Pie's  inviting  Miss 
Bessie  to  one  of  his  castles,"  he  murmured 
to  his  companion. 

Mrs.  Westgate,  foreseeing  what  she 
mentally  called  "  complications,"  imme- 
diately got  up ;  and  the  two  ladies,  tak- 
ing leave  of  Lord  Lambeth,  returned, 
under  Mr.  Woodley's  conduct,  to  Jones's 
Hotel. 

Lord  Lambeth  came  to  see  them  on  the 
morrow,  bringing  Percy  Beaumont  with 
him — the  latter  having  instantly  declared 
his  intention  of  neglecting  none  of  the 
usual  offices  of  civility.  This  declaration, 
however,  when  his  kinsman  informed 
him  of  the  advent  of  their  American 
friends,  had  been  preceded  by  another 
remark. 

"Here  they  are,  then,  and  you  are  in 
for  it." 

"  What  am  I  in  for  ?"  demanded  Lord 
Lambeth. 

"  I  will  let  your  mother  give  it  a  name. 
With  all  respect  to  whom,"  added  Percy 
Beaumont,  "  I  must  decline  on  this  occa- 
sion to  do  any  more  police  duty.  Her 
Grace  must  look  after  you  herself." 


248 


"  I  will  give  her  a  chance,'1  said  her 
Grace's  son,  a  trifle  grimly.  "  I  shall 
make  her  go  and  see  them." 

"  She  won't  do  it,  my  boy." 

"  We'll  see  if  she  doesn't,"  said  Lord 
Lambeth. 

But  if  Percy  Beaumont  took  a  sombre 
view  of  the  arrival  of  the  two  ladies  at 
Jones's  Hotel,  he  was  sufficiently  a  man 
of  the  world  to  offer  them  a  smiling 
countenance.  He  fell  into  animated  con- 
versation— conversation,  at  least,  that  was 
animated  on  her  side — with  Mrs.  West- 
gate,  while  his  companion  made  himself 
agreeable  to  the  young  lady.  Mrs.  West- 
gate  began  confessing  and  protesting,  de- 
claring and  expounding. 

"1  must  say  London  is  a  great  deal 
brighter  and  prettier  just  now  than  when 
I  was  here  last — in  the  month  of  Novem- 
ber. There  is  evidently  a  great  deal  going 
on,  and  you  seem  to  have  a  good  many 
flowers.  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  very 
charming  for  all  you  people,  and  that  you 
amuse  yourselves  immensely.  It  is  very 
good  of  you  to  let  Bessie  and  me  come 
and  sit  and  look  at  you.  I  suppose  you 
think  I  am  satirical,  but  I  must  confess 
that  that's  the  feeling  I  have  in  London." 

249 


"  I  am  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand 
to  what  feeling  you  allude,"  said  Percy 
Beaumont. 

"  The  feeling  that  it's  all  very  well  for 
you  English  people.  Everything  is  beau- 
tifully arranged  for  you." 

"It  seems  to  me  it  is  very  well  for 
some  Americans,  sometimes,"  rejoined 
Beaumont. 

"  For  some  of  them,  yes — if  they  like 
to  be  patronized.  But  I  must  say  I  don't 
like  to  be  patronized.  I  may  be  very 
eccentric  and  undisciplined  and  outra- 
geous, but  I  confess  I  never  was  fond  of 
patronage.  I  like  to  associate  with  peo- 
ple on  the  same  terms  as  I  do  in  my  own 
country ;  that's  a  peculiar  taste  that  I  have. 
But  here  people  seem  to  expect  something 
else — Heaven  knows  what !  I  am  afraid 
you  will  think  I  am  very  ungrateful,  for 
I  certainly  have  received  a  great  deal  of 
attention.  The  last  time  I  was  here,  a 
lady  sent  me  a  message  that  I  was  at 
liberty  to  come  and  see  her." 

"  Dear  me !  I  hope  you  didn't  go,"  ob- 
served Percy  Beaumont. 

"  You  are  deliciously  naive,  I  must  say 
that  for  you !"  Mrs.  Westgate  exclaimed. 
"It  must  be  a  great  advantage  to  you 

250 


here  in  London.  I  suppose  if  I  myself 
had  a  little  more  naivete,  I  should  enjoy  it 
more.  I  should  be  content  to  sit  on  a  chair 
in  the  park,  and  see  the  people  pass,  arid  be 
told  that  this  is  the  Duchess  of  Suffolk,  and 
that  is  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  and  that  I 
must  be  thankful  for  the  privilege  of  be- 
holding them.  I  dare  say  it  is  very  wicked 
and  critical  of  me  to  ask  for  anything  else. 
But  I  was  always  critical,  and  I  freely 
confess  to  the  sin  of  being  fastidious.  I 
am  told  there  is  some  remarkably  supe- 
rior second-rate  society  provided  here  for 
strangers.  Merci  !  I  don't  want  any  su- 
perior second-rate  society.  I  want  the 
society  that  I  have  been  accustomed  to." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  call  Lambeth  and 
me  second-rate,"  Beaumont  interposed. 

"  Ob,  I  am  accustomed  to  yon,"  said 
Mrs.  Westgate.  "  Do  you  know  that  you 
English  sometimes  make  the  most  won- 
derful speeches?  The  first  time  I  came 
to  London  I  went  out  to  dine  —  as  I  told 
you,  I  have  received  a  great  deal  of  at- 
tention. After  dinner,  in  the  drawing- 
room  I  had  some  conversation  with  an 
old  lady ;  I  assure  you  I  had.  I  forget 
what  we  talked  about,  but  she  presently 
said,  in  allusion  to  something  we  were 

251 


discussing,  '  Oh,  you  know,  the  aristoc- 
racy do  so-and-so ;  but  in  one's  own  class 
of  life  it  is  very  different.'  In  one's  own 
class  of  life !  What  is  a  poor  unprotected 
American  woman  to  do  in  a  country 
where  she  is  liable  to  have  that  sort  of 
thing  said  to  her  ?" 

"  You  seem  to  get  hold  of  some  very 
queer  old  ladies;  I  compliment  you  on 
your  acquaintance !"  Percy  Beaumont  ex- 
claimed. "If  you  are  trying  to  bring 
me  to  admit  that  London  is  an  odious 
place,  you'll  not  succeed.  I'm  extremely 
fond  of  it,  and  I  think  it  the  jolliest 
place  in  the  world." 

"  Pour  vous  autres.     I  never  said  the 


contrary,"  Mrs.  Westgate  retorted.  I 
make  use  of  this  expression,  because  both 
interlocutors  had  begun  to  raise  their 
voices.  Percy  Beaumont  naturally  did 
not  like  to  hear  his  country  abused,  and 
Mrs.  Westgate,  no  less  naturally,  did  not 
like  a  stubborn  debater. 

"  Hallo  !"  said  Lord  Lambeth  ;  "  what 
are  they  up  to  now  ?"  And  he  came 
away  from  the  window,  where  he  had 
been  standing  with  Bessie  Alden. 

"I  quite  agree  with  a  very  clever 
countrywoman  of  mine,"  Mrs.  Westgate 
continued,  with  charming  ardor,  though 
with  imperfect  relevancy.  She  smiled  at 
the  two  gentlemen  for  a  moment  with 
terrible  brightness,  as  if  to  toss  at  their 
feet — upon  their  native  heath — the  gaunt- 
let of  defiance.  "  For  me  there  are  only 
two  social  positions  worth  speaking  of — 
that  of  an  American  lady,  and  that  of  the 
Emperor  of  Russia." 

"  And  what  do  you  do  with  the  Ameri- 
can gentlemen  ?"  asked  Lord  Lambeth. 

"  She  leaves  them  in  America !"  said 
Percy  Beaumont. 

On  the  departure  of  their  visitors, 
Bessie  Alden  told  her  sister  that  Lord 
Lambeth  would  come  the  next  day,  to  go 

253 


with  them  to  the  Tower,  and  that  lie  had 
kindly  offered  to  bring  his  "trap,"  and 
drive  them  thither. 

Mrs.  Westgate  listened  in  silence  to 
this  communication,  and  for  some  time 
afterwards  she  said  nothing.  But  at  last : 
"  If  you  had  not  requested  me  the  oth- 
er day  not  to  mention  it,"  she  began, 
"there  is  something  I  should  venture 
to  ask  you."  Bessie  frowned  a  little ; 
her  dark  blue  eyes  were  more  dark  than 
blue.  But  her  sister  went  on.  "  As  it 
is,  I  will  take  the  risk.  You  are  not  in 
love  with  Lord  Lambeth:  I  believe  it, 
perfectly.  Yery  good.  But  is  there,  by 
chance,  any  danger  of  your  becoming  so  ? 
It's  a  very  simple  question ;  don't  take 
offence.  I  have  a  particular  reason,"  said 
Mrs.  Westgate,  "  for  wanting  to  know." 

Bessie  Alden  for  some  moments  said 
nothing ;  she  only  looked  displeased. 
"  ISTo ;  there  is  no  danger,"  she  answered 
at  last,  curtly 

"  Then  I  should  like  to  frighten  them," 
declared  Mrs.  Westgate,  clasping  her 
jewelled  hands. 

"  To  frighten  whom  ?" 

"  All  these  people  ;  Lord  Lambeth's 
family  and  friends." 

254 


"How  should  you  frighten  them?" 
asked  the  young  girl. 

"It  wouldn't  be  I — it  would  be  you. 
It  would  frighten  them  to  think  that  you 
should  absorb  his  lordship's  young  affec- 
tions." 

Bessie  Alden,  with  her  clear  eyes  still 
overshadowed  by  her  dark  brows,  con- 
tinued to  interrogate.  "  Why  should  that 
frighten  them?" 

Mrs.  "VYestgate  poised  her  answer  with 
a  smile  before  delivering  it.  "  Because 
they  think  you  are  not  good  enough. 
You  are  a  charming  girl,  beautiful  and 
amiable,  intelligent  and  clever,  and  as 
bien-elevee  as  it  is  possible  to  be  ;  but 
you  are  not  a  fit  match  for  Lord  Lam- 
beth." 

Bessie  Alden  was  decidedly  disgusted. 
"  Where  do  you  get  such  extraordinary 
ideas  ?"  she  asked.  "  You  have  said  some 
such  strange  things  lately.  My  dear 
Kitty,  where  do  you  collect  them  ?" 

Kitty  was  evidently  enamoured  of  her 
idea.  "  Yes,  it  would  put  them  on  pins 
and  needles,  and  it  wouldn't  hurt  you. 
Mr.  Beaumont  is  already  most  uneasy ;  I 
could  soon  see  that." 

The  young  girl  meditated  a  moment. 

255 


"  Do  you  mean  that  they  spy  upon  him— 
that  they  interfere  with  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  power  they  have 
to  interfere,  but  I  know  that  a  British 
mamma  may  worry  her  son's  life  out." 

It  has  been  intimated  that,  as  regards 
certain  disagreeable  things,  Bessie  Alden 
had  a  fund  of  scepticism.  She  abstained 
on  the  present  occasion  from  expressing 
disbelief,  for  she  wished  not  to  irritate 
her  sister.  But  she  said  to  herself  that 
Kitty  had  been  misinformed  —  that  this 
was  a  traveller's  tale.  Though  she  was  a 
girl  of  a  lively  imagination,  there  could  in 
the  nature  of  things  be,  to  her  sense,  no 
reality  in  the  idea  of  her  belonging  to  a 
vulgar  category.  What  she  said  aloud 
was,  "  I  must  say  that  in  that  case  I  am 
very  sorry  for  Lord  Lambeth." 

Mrs.  Westgate,  more  and  more  exhila- 
rated by  her  scheme,  was  smiling  at  her 
again.  "  If  I  could  only  believe  it  was 
safe  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  When  you  be- 
gin to  pity  him,  I,  on  my  side,  am 
afraid." 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

"  Of  your  pitying  him  too  much." 

Bessie  Alden  turned  away  impatiently; 
but  at  the  end  of  a  minute  she  turned 

256 


back.  "  What  if  I  should  pity  him  too 
much?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Westgate  hereupon  turned  away, 
but  after  a  moment's  reflection  she  also 
faced  her  sister  again.  "  It  would  come, 
after  all,  to  the  same  thing,"  she  said. 

Lord  Lambeth  came  the  next  day  with 
his  trap,  and  the  two  ladies,  attended  by 
Willie  Woodley,  placed  themselves  under 
his  guidance,  and  were  conveyed  east- 
ward, through  some  of  the  dusker  por- 
tions of  the  metropolis,  to  the  great  tur- 
reted  donjon  which  overlooks  the  London 
shipping.  They  all  descended  from  their 
vehicle  and  entered  the  famous  enclosure ; 
and  they  secured  the  services  of  a  vener- 
able beef -eater,  who,  though  there  were 
many  other  claimants  for  legendary  in- 
formation, made  a  fine  exclusive  party  of 
them,  and  marched  them  through  courts 
and  corridors,  through  armories  and  pris- 
ons. He  delivered  his  usual  peripatetic 
discourse,  and  they  stopped  and  stared, 
and  peeped  and  stooped,  according  to  the 
official  admonitions.  Bessie  Alden  asked 
the  old  man  in  the  crimson  doublet  a 
great  many  questions;  she  thought  it  a 
most  fascinating  place.  Lord  Lambeth 
was  in  high  good -humor;  he  was  con- 

257 


stantly  laughing;  lie  enjoyed  what  he 
would  have  called  the  lark.  Willie  Wood- 
ley  kept  looking  at  the  ceilings  and  tap- 
ping the  walls  with  the  knuckle  of  a  pearl- 
gray  glove ;  and  Mrs.  Westgate,  asking 
at  frequent  intervals  to  be  allowed  to  sit 
down  and  wait  till  they  came  back,  was 
as  frequently  informed  that  they  would 
never  come  back.  To  a  great  many  of 
Bessie's  questions  —  chiefly  on  collateral 
points  of  English  history — the  ancient 
warder  was  naturally  unable  to  reply; 
whereupon  she  always  appealed  to  Lord 
Lambeth.  But  his  lordship  was  very 
ignorant.  He  declared  that  he  knew 
nothing  about  that  sort  of  thing,  and  he 
seemed  greatly  diverted  at  being  treated 
as  an  authority. 

"  You  can't  expect  every  one  to  know 
as  much  as  you,"  he  said. 

"  I  should  expect  you  to  know  a  great 
deal  more,"  declared  Bessie  Alden. 

"  Women  always  know  more  than  men 
about  names  and  dates,  and  that  sort  of 
thing,"  Lord  Lambeth  rejoined.  "There 
was  Lady  Jane  Grey  we  have  just  been 
hearing  about,  who  went  in  for  Latin 
and  Greek,  and  all  the  learning  of  her 
age." 


"  You  have  no  right  to  be  ignorant,  at 
all  events,"  said  Bessie. 

"  Why  haven't  I  as  good  a  right  as  any 
one  else  ?" 

"Because  you  have  lived  in  the  midst 
of  all  these  things." 

"  What  things  do  you  mean  ?  Axes, 
and  blocks,  and  thumb-screws?" 

"  All  these  historical  things.  You  be- 
long to  a  historical  family." 

"Bessie  is  really  too  historical,"  said 
Mrs.  Westgate,  catching  a  word  of  this 
dialogue. 

".Yes,  you  are  too  historical,"  said  Lord 
Lambeth,  laughing,  but  thankful  for  a 
formula.  "  Upon  my  honor,  you  are  too 
historical !" 

He  went  with  the  ladies  a  couple  of  days 
later  to  Hampton  Court,  Willie  Woodley 

259 


being  also  of  the  party.  The  afternoon 
was  charming,  the  famous  horse -chest- 
nuts were  in  blossom,  and  Lord  Lambeth, 
who  quite  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the 
cockney  excursionist,  declared  that  it  was 
a  jolly  old  place.  Bessie  Alden  was  in 
ecstasies;  she  went  about  murmuring  and 
exclaiming. 

"  It's  too  lovely,"  said  the  young  girl ; 
"it's  too  enchanting;  it's  too  exactly 
what  it  ought  to  be !" 

At  Hampton  Court  the  little  flocks  of 
visitors  are  not  provided  with  an  official 
bell-wether,  but  are  left  to  browse  at  dis- 
cretion upon  the  local  antiquities.  It 
happened  in  this  manner  that,  in  default 
of  another  informant,  Bessie  Alden,  who 
on  doubtful  questions  was  able  to  suggest 
a  great  many  alternatives,  found  herself 
again  applying  for  intellectual  assistance 
to  Lord  Lambeth.  But  he  again  assured 
her  that  he  was  utterly  helpless  in  such 
matters  —  that  his  education  had  been 
sadly  neglected. 

"And  I  am  sorry  it  makes  you  un- 
happy," he  added,  in  a  moment. 

"You  are  very  disappointing,  Lord 
Lambeth,"  she  said. 

"  Ah,  now,  don't  say  that !"  he  cried. 

260 


"  That's  the  worst  thing  you  could  possi- 
bly say." 

"No,"  she  rejoined,  "it  is  not  so  bad 
as  to  say  that  I  had  expected  nothing  of 
you." 

"  I  don't  know.  Give  me  a  notion  of 
the  sort  of  thing  you  expected." 

"  Well,"  said  Bessie  Alden,  "  that  you 
would  be  more  what  I  should  like  to  be — 
what  I  should  try  to  be — in  your  place." 

"  Ah,  my  place !"  exclaimed  Lord  Lam- 
beth. "You  are  always  talking  about 
my  place !" 

The  young  girl  looked  at  him ;  he 
thought  she  colored  a  little ;  and  for  a 
moment  she  made  no  rejoinder. 

"  Does  it  strike  you  that  I  am  always 
talking  about  your  place?"  she  asked. 

"  I  am  sure  you  do  it  a  great  honor," 
he  said,  fearing  he  had  been  uncivil. 

"  I  have  often  thought  about  it,"  she 
went  on,  after  a  moment.  "  I  have  often 
thought  about  your  being  a  hereditary 
legislator.  A  hereditary  legislator  ought 
to  know  a  great  many  things." 

"  Not  if  he  doesn't  legislate." 

"But  you  do  legislate  ;  it's  absurd  your 
saying  you  don't.  You  are  very  much 
looked  up  to  here — I  am  assured  of  that." 

261 


"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  noticed 
it," 

"It  is  because  you  are  used  to  it,  then. 
You  ought  to  fill  the  place." 

"  How  do  you  mean  to  fill  it  ?"  asked 
Lord  Lambeth. 

"  You  ought  .  to  be  very  clever  and 
brilliant,  and  to  know  almost  everything." 

Lord  Lambeth  looked  at  her  a  mo- 
ment. "  Shall  I  tell  you  something  ?"  he 
asked.  "A  young  man  in  my  position, 
as  you  call  it — 

"  I  didn't  invent  the  term,"  interposed 
Bessie  Alden.  "  I  have  seen  it  in  a  great 
many  books." 

"Hang  it!  you  are  always  at  your 
books.  A  fellow  in  my  position,  then, 
does  very  well  whatever  he  does.  That's 
about  what  I  mean  to  say." 

"Well,  if  your  own  people  are  content 
with  you,"  said  Bessie  Alden,  laughing, 
"  it  is  not  for  me  to  complain.  But  I 
shall  always  think  that,  properly,  you 
should  have  been  a  great  mind — a  great 
character." 

"  Ah,  that's  very  theoretic,"  Lord  Lam- 
beth declared.  "  Depend  upon  it,  that's 
a  Yankee  prejudice." 

"  Happy  the  country,"  said  Bessie  Al- 

262 


den,  "  where  even  people's  prejudices  are 
so  elevated !" 

"  Well,  after  all,"  observed  Lord  Lam- 
beth, "  I  don't  know  that  I  am  such  a 
fool  as  you  are  trying  to  make  me  out." 

"  I  said  nothing  so  rude  as  that ;  but  I 
must  repeat  that  you  are  disappointing." 

"My  dear  Miss  Alden,"  exclaimed  the 
young  man,  "  I  am  the  best  fellow  in  the 
world  !" 

"  Ah,  if  it  were  not  for  that !"  said 
Bessie  Alden,  with  a  smile. 

Mrs.  Westgate  had  a  good  many  more 
friends  in  London  than  she  pretended, 
and  before  long  she  had  renewed  ac- 
quaintance with  most  of  them.  Their 
hospitality  was  extreme,  so  that,  one 
thing  leading  to  another,  she  began,  as 
the  phrase  is,  to  go  out.  Bessie  Alden, 
in  this  way,  saw  something  of  what  she 
found  it  a  great  satisfaction  to  call  to 
herself  English  society.  She  went  to 
balls  and  danced,  she  went  to  dinners 
and  talked,  she  went  to  concerts  and  lis- 
tened (at  concerts  Bessie  always  listened), 
she  went  to  exhibitions  and  wondered. 
Her  enjoyment  was  keen  and  her  curi- 
osity insatiable,  and,  grateful  in  general 
for  all  her  opportunities,  she  especially 

263 


prized  the  privilege  of  meeting  certain 
celebrated  persons — authors  and  artists, 
philosophers  and  statesmen — of  whose 
renown  she  had  been  a  humble  and  dis- 
tant beholder,  and  who  now,  as  a  part  of 
the  habitual  furniture  of  London  draw- 
ing-rooms, struck  her  as  stars  fallen  from 
the  firmament  and  become  palpable — re- 
vealing also  sometimes,  on  contact,  quali- 
ties not  to  have  been  predicted  of  side- 
real bodies. 

Bessie,  who  knew  so  many  of  her  con- 
temporaries by  reputation,  had  a  good 
many  personal  disappointments;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  she  had  innumerable  satis- 
factions and  enthusiasms,  and  she  com- 
municated the  emotions  of  either  class  to 
a  dear  friend  of  her  own  sex  in  Boston, 
with  whom  she  was  in  voluminous  corre- 
spondence. Some  of  her  reflections,  in- 
deed, she  attempted  to  impart  to  Lord 
Lambeth,  who  came  almost  every  day  to 
Jones's  Hotel,  and  whom  Mrs.  Westgate 
admitted  to  be  really  devoted.  Captain 
Littledale,  it  appeared,  had  gone  to  India; 
and  of  several  others  of  Mrs.  Westgate's 
ex-pensioners  —  gentlemen  who,  as  she 
said,  had  made,  in  New  York,  a  club- 
house of  her  drawing-room  —  no  tidings 

264 


were  to  be  obtained ;  but  Lord  Lambeth 
was  certainly  attentive  enough  to  make 
up  for  the  accidental  absences,  the  short 
memories,  all  the  other  irregularities,  of 
every  one  else.  He  drove  them  in  the 
park,  he  took  them  to  visit  private  collec- 
tions of  pictures,  and,  having  a  house  of 
his  own,  invited  them  to  dinner.  Mrs. 
Westgate,  following  the  fashion  of  many 
of  her  compatriots,  caused  herself  and 
her  sister  to  be  presented  at  the  English 
court  by  her  diplomatic  representative — 
for  it  was  in  this  manner  that  she  alluded 
to  the  American  minister  to  England,  in- 
quiring what  on  earth  he  was  put  there 
for,  if  not  to  make  the  proper  arrange- 
ments for  one's  going  to  a  Drawing-room. 
Lord  Lambeth  declared  that  he  hated 
Drawing-rooms,  but  he  participated  in 
the  ceremony  on  the  day  on  which  the 
two  ladies  at  Jones's  Hotel  repaired  to 
Buckingham  Palace  in  a  remarkable  coach 
which  his  lordship  had  sent  to  fetch 
them.  He  had  a  gorgeous  uniform,  and 
Bessie  Alden  was  particularly  struck  with 
his  appearance,  especially  when  on  her  ask- 
ing him — rather  foolishly,  as  she  felt — if 
he  were  a  loyal  subject,  he  replied  that 
he  was  a  loyal  subject  to  her.  This  dec- 

265 


laration  was  emphasized  by  his  dancing 
with  her  at  a  royal  ball  to  which  the  two 
ladies  afterwards  went,  and  was  not  im- 
paired by  the  fact  that  she  thought  he 
danced  very  ill.  He  seemed  to  her  won- 
derfully kind ;  she  asked  herself,  with 
growing  vivacity,  why  he  should  be  so 
kind.  It  was  his  disposition — that  seemed 
the  natural  answer.  She  had  told  her 
sister  that  she  liked  him  very  much,  and 
now  that  she  liked  him  more  she  won- 
dered why.  She  liked  him  for  his  dispo- 
sition ;  to  this  question  as  well  that  seemed 
the  natural  answer.  When  once  the  im- 
pressions of  London  life  began  to  crowd 
thickly  upon  her  she  completely  forgot 
her  sister's  warning  about  the  cynicism 
of  public  opinion.  It  had  given  her 
great  pain  at  the  moment,  but  there  was 
no  particular  reason  why  she  should  re- 
member it ;  it  corresponded  too  little 
with  any  sensible  reality  ;  and  it  was  dis- 
agreeable to  Bessie  to  remember  disagree- 
able things.  So  she  was  not  haunted 
with  the  sense  of  a  vulgar  imputation. 
She  was  not  in  love  with  Lord  Lambeth 
—she  assured  herself  of  that. 

It  will  immediately  be  observed  that 
when  such  assurances  become  necessary 


2(!6 


the  state  of  a  young  lady's 
affections  is  already  ambigu- 
ous ;  and,  indeed,  Bessie  Al- 
den  made  no  attempt  to  dissim- 
ulate— to  herself,  of  course — a  cer- 
tain tenderness  that  she  felt  for  the 
young  nobleman.  She  said  to  her- 
self that  she  liked  the  type  to  which 
he  belonged  —  the  simple,  candid, 
manly,  healthy  English  tempera- 
ment. She  spoke  to  herself  of  him 
as  women  speak  of  young  men  they 
like — alluded  to  his  bravery  (which 
she  had  never  in  the  least  seen  test- 
ed), to  his  honesty  and  gentlemanli- 
ness,  and  was  not  silent  upon  the 
subject  of  his  good  looks.  She  was 
perfectly  conscious,  moreover,  that 
she  liked  to  think  of  his  more  ad- 
ventitious merits  ;  that  her  imagi- 
nation was  excited  and  gratified 
by  the  sight  of  a  handsome  young 
man  endowed  with  such  large  oppor- 
tunities—  opportunities  she  hardly 


knew  for  what,  but,  as  she  supposed,  for 
doing  great  things — for  setting  an  exam- 
ple, for  exerting  an  influence,  for  confer- 
ring happiness,  for  encouraging  the  arts. 
She  had  a  kind  of  ideal  of  conduct  for  a 
young  man  who  should  find  himself  in 
this  magnificent  position,  and  she  tried  to 
adapt  it  to  Lord  Lambeth's  deportment, 
as  you  might  attempt  to  fit  a  silhouette  in 
cut  paper  upon  a  shadow  projected  upon 
a  wall. 

But  Bessie  Alden's  silhouette  refused 
to  coincide  with  his  lordship's  image,  and 
this  want  of  harmony  sometimes  vexed 
her  more  than  she  thought  reasonable. 
When  he  was  absent  it  was,  of  course, 
less  striking;  then  he  seemed  to  her  a 
sufficiently  graceful  combination  of  high 
responsibilities  and  amiable  qualities.  But 
when  he  sat  there  within  sight,  laughing 
and  talking  with  his  customary  good- 
humor  and  simplicity,  she  measured  it 
more  accurately,  and  she  felt  acutely  that 
if  Lord  Lambeth's  position  was  heroic, 
there  was  but  little  of  the  hero  in  the 
young  man  himself.  Then  her  imagi- 
nation wandered  away  from  him — very 
far  away;  for  it  was  an  incontestable  fact 
that  at  such  moments  he  seemed  distinct- 


ly  dull.  I  am  afraid  that  while  Bessie's 
imagination  was  thus  invidiously  roam- 
ing, she  cannot  have  been  herself  a  very 
lively  companion  ;  but  it  may  well  have 
been  that  these  occasional  fits  of  indiffer- 
ence seemed  to  Lord  Lambeth  a  part  of 
the  young  girl's  personal  charm.  It  had 
been  a  part  of  this  charm  from  the  first 
that  he  felt  that  she  judged  him  and 
measured  him  more  freely  and  irresponsi- 
bly— more  at  her  ease  and  her  leisure,  as 
it  were  —  than  several  young  ladies  with 
whom  he  had  been,  on  the  whole,  about 
as  intimate.  To  feel  this,  and  yet  to  feel 
that  she  also  liked  him,  was  very  agree- 
able to  Lord  Lambeth.  He  fancied  he 
had  compassed  that  gratification  so  desir- 
able to  young  men  of  title  and  fortune — 
being  liked  for  himself.  It  is  true  that 
a  cynical  counsellor  might  have  whispered 
to  him,  "  Liked  for  yourself  ?  Yes ;  but 
not  so  very  much !"  He  had,  at  any 
rate,  the  constant  hope  of  being  liked 
more. 

It  may  seem,  perhaps,  a  trifle  singular 
— but  it  is  nevertheless  true — that  Bessie 
Alden,  when  he  struck  her  as  dull,  de- 
voted some  time,  on  grounds  of  con- 
science, to  trying  to  like  him  more.  I 


say  on  grounds  of  conscience,  because  she 
felt  that  he  had  been  extremely  "  nice  " 
to  her  sister,  and  because  she  reflected 
that  it  was  no  more  than  fair  that  she 
should  think  as  well  of  him  as  he  thought 
of  her.  This  effort  was  possibly  some- 
times not  so  successful  as  it  might  have 
been,  for  the  result  of  it  was  occasionally 
a  vague  irritation,  which  expressed  itself 
in  hostile  criticism  of  several  British  in- 
stitutions. Bessie  Alden  went  to  some 
entertainments  at  which  she  met  Lord 
Lambeth;  but  she  went  to  others  at  which 
his  lordship  was  neither  actually  nor  po- 
tentially present ;  and  it  was  chiefly  on 
these  latter  occasions  that  she  encoun- 
tered those  literary  and  artistic  celebri- 
ties of  whom  mention  has  been  made. 
After  a  while  she  reduced  the  matter  to  a 
principle.  If  Lord  Lambeth  should  ap- 
pear anywhere,  it  was  a  symbol  that  there 
would  be  no  poets  and  philosophers ;  and 
in  consequence — for  it  was  almost  a  strict 
consequence  —  she  used  to  enumerate  to 
the  young  man  these  objects  of  her  admi- 
ration. 

"You  seem  to  be  awfully  fond  of  those 
sort  of  people,"  said  Lord  Lambeth  one 
day,  as  if  the  idea  had  just  occurred  to  him. 


270 


"They  are  the  people  in  England  I 
am  most  curious  to  see,"  Bessie  Alden 
replied. 

"I  suppose  that's  because  you  have 
read  so  much,"  said  Lord  Lambeth,  gal- 
lantly. 

"I  have  not  read  so  much.  It  is  be- 
cause we  think  so  much  of  them  at  home." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  observed  the  young  noble- 
man. "  In  Boston." 

"Not  only  in  Boston  ;  every  where,"  said 
Bessie.  "  We  hold  them  in  great  honor  ; 
they  go  to  the  best  dinner-parties." 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right.  I  can't  say 
I  know  many  of  them." 

"It's  a  pity  you  don't,"  Bessie  Alden 
declared.  "  It  would  do  you  good." 

"  I  dare  say  it  would,"  said  Lord  Lam- 
beth, very  humbly.  "  But  I  must  say  I 
don't  like  the  looks  of  some  of  them." 

"  Neither  do  I — of  some  of  them.  But 
there  are  all  kinds,  and  many  of  them 
are  charming." 

"  I  have  talked  with  two  or  three  of 
them,"  the  young  man  went  on,  "  and  I 
thought  they  had  a  kind  of  fawning 
manner." 

"Why  should  they  fawn?"  Bessie  Al- 
den demanded. 

271 


"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Why,  in- 
deed ?" 

"Perhaps  you  only  thought  so,"  said 
Bessie. 

"Well,  of  course,"  rejoined  her  com- 
panion, "  that's  a  kind  of  thing  that  can't 
be  proved." 

"In  America  they  don't  fawn,"  said 
Bessie. 

"Ah,  well,  then,  they  must  be  better 
company." 

Bessie  was  silent  a  moment.  "  That  is 
one  of  the  things  I  don't  like  about  Eng- 
land," she  said — "  your  keeping  the  dis- 
tinguished people  apart." 

"  How  do  you  mean  apart  ?" 

"  Why,  letting  them  corne  only  to  cer- 
tain places.  You  never  see  tlfem." 

Lord  Lambeth  looked  at  her  a  moment. 
"  What  people  do  you  mean  ?" 

"The  eminent  people  —  the  authors 
and  artists — the  clever  people." 

"  Oh,  there  are  other  eminent  people 
besides  those,"  said  Lord  Lambeth. 

"Well,  you  certainly  keep  them  apart," 
repeated  the  young  girl. 

"And  there  are  other  clever  people," 
added  Lord  Lambeth,  simply. 

Bessie  Alden  looked  at  him,  and  she 

272 


gave  a  light  laugh.  "Not  many,"  she 
said. 

On  another  occasion — just  after  a  din- 
ner-party,—  she  told  him  that  there  was 
something  else  in  England  she  did  not 
like. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  he  cried,  "haven't  you 
abused  us  enough  ?" 

"I  have  never  abused  you  at  all,"  said 
Bessie;  "but  I  don't  like  your  prece- 
dence" 

"  It  isn't  my  precedence !"  Lord  Lam- 
beth declared,  laughing. 

"Yes,  it  is  yours — just  exactly  yours; 
and  I  think  it's  odious,"  said  Bessie. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  young  lady  for 

273 


discussing  tilings !  Has  some  one  had 
the  impudence  to  go  before  you  ?"  asked 
his  lordship. 

"It  is  not  the  going  before  me  that  I 
object  to,"  said  Bessie ;  "  it  is  their  think- 
ing that  they  have  a  right  to  do  it  —  a 
right  that  I  recognize" 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  young  lady  as  you 
are  for  not  '  recognizing.'  I  have  no 
doubt  the  thing  is  beastly,  but  it  saves 
a  lot  of  trouble." 

"  It  makes  a  lot  of  trouble.  It's  horrid," 
said  Bessie. 

"But  how  would  you  have  the  first 
people  go  ?"  asked  Lord  Lambeth.  "  They 
can't  go  last." 

"Whom  do  you  mean  by  the  first 
people  ?" 

"Ah,  if  you  mean  to  question  first 
principles !"  said  Lord  Lambeth. 

"  If  those  are  your  first  principles,  no 
wonder  some  of  your  arrangements  are 
horrid,"  observed  Bessie  Alden,  with  a 
very  pretty  ferocity.  "I  am  a  young 
girl,  so  of  course  I  go  last ;  but  imagine 
what  Kitty  must  feel  on  being  informed 
that  she  is  not  at  liberty  to  budge  until 
certain  other  ladies  have  passed  out." 

"  Oh,  I  say  she    is   not  '  informed  !' ': 


274 


cried  Lord  Lambeth.  "No  one  would 
do  such  a  thing  as  that." 

"  She  is  made  to  feel  it,"  the  young 
girl  insisted — "  as  if  they  were  afraid  she 
would  make  a  rush  for  the  door.  No; 
you  have  a  lovely  country,"  said  Bessie 
Alden,  "  but  your  precedence  is  horrid." 

"  I  certainly  shouldn't  think  your  sister 
would  like  it,"  rejoined  Lord  Lambeth, 
with  even  exaggerated  gravity.  But 
Bessie  Alden  could  induce  him  to  enter 
no  formal  protest  against  this  repulsive 
custom,  which  he  seemed  to  think  an 
extreme  convenience. 

Percy  Beaumont  all  this  time  had  been 
a  very  much  less  frequent  visitor  at 
Jones's  Hotel  than  his  noble  kinsman ; 
he  had,  in  fact,  called  but  twice  upon  the 
two  American  ladies.  Lord  Lambeth, 
who  often  saw  him,  reproached  him  with 
his  neglect,  and  declared  that,  although 
Mrs.  Westgate  had  said  nothing  about  it, 
he  was  sure  that  she  was  secretly  wounded 
by  it.  "  She  suffers  too  much  to  speak," 
said  Lord  Lambeth. 

"  That's  all  gammon,"  said  Percy  Beau- 
mont; "there's  a  limit  to  what  people 
can  suffer !"  And,  though  sending  no 
apologies  to  Jones's  Hotel,  he  undertook, 

275 


in  a  manner,  to  explain  his  absence.  "You 
are  always  there,"  he  said,  "  and  that's 
reason  enough  for  my  not  going." 

"I  don't  see  why.  There  is  enough 
for  both  of  us." 

"I  don't  care  to  be  a  witness  of  your 
— your  reckless  passion,"  said  Percy  Beau- 
mont. 

Lord  Lambeth  looked  at  him  with  a 
cold  eye,  and  for  a  moment  said  nothing. 
"  It's  not  so  obvious  as  you  might  sup- 
pose," he  rejoined,  dryly,  "considering 
what  a  demonstrative  beggar  I  am." 

"  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about 
it  —  nothing  whatever,"  said  Beaumont. 
'Your  mother  asks  me  every  time  she 
sees  me  whether  I  believe  you  are  really 
lost  —  and  Lady  Pimlico  does  the  same. 
I  prefer  to  be  able  to  answer  that  I  know 
nothing  about  it — that  I  never  go  there. 
I  stay  away  for  consistency's  sake.  As  I 
said  the  other  day,  they  must  look  after 
you  themselves." 

"You  are  devilish  considerate,"  said 
Lord  Lambeth.  "They  never  question 
me." 

"They  are  afraid  of  you.  They  are 
afraid  of  irritating  you  and  making  you 
worse.  So  they  go  to  work  very  cau- 

276 


tiously,  and,  somewhere  or  other,  they 
get  their  information.  They  know  a 
great  deal  about  yon.  They  know  that 
you  have  been  with  those  ladies  to  the 
dome  of  St.  Paul's  and  —  where  was  the 
other  place  ? — to  the  Thames  Tunnel." 

"  If  all  their  knowledge  is  as  accurate 
as  that,  it  must  be  very  valuable,"  said 
Lord  Lambeth. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  they  know  that  you 
have  been  visiting  the  i  sights  of  the  me- 
tropolis.' They  think — very  naturally, 
as  it  seems  to  me — that  when  you  take  to 
visiting  the  sights  of  the  metropolis  with 
a  little  American  girl,  there  is  serious 
cause  for  alarm."  Lord  Lambeth  re- 
sponded to  this  intimation  by  scornful 
laughter,  and  his  companion  continued, 
after  a  pause  :  "  I  said  just  now  I  didn't 
want  to  know  anything  about  the  affair ; 
but  I  will  confess  that  I  am  curious  to 
learn  whether  you  propose  to  marry  Miss 
Bessie  Alden." 

On  this  point  Lord  Lambeth  gave  his 
interlocutor  no  immediate  satisfaction ; 
he  was  musing,  with  a  frown.  "  By 
Jove,"  he  said,  "  they  go  rather  too  far ! 
They  shall  find  me  dangerous — I  promise 
them." 

277 


Percy  Beaumont  began  to  laugh.  "  You 
don't  redeem  your  promises.  You  said 
the  other  day  you  would  make  your 
mother  call." 

Lord  Lambeth  continued  to  meditate. 
"  I  asked  her  to  call,"  he  said,  simply. 

"  And  she  declined  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  she  shall  do  it  yet." 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Percy  Beau- 
mont, "  if  she  gets  much  more  frightened 
I  believe  she  will."  Lord  Lambeth  looked 
at  him,  and  he  went  on.  "  She  will  go 
to  the  girl  herself." 

"How  do  you  mean  she  will  go  to 
her?" 

"  She  will  beg  her  off,  or  she  will  bribe 
her.  She  will  take  strong  measures." 

Lord  Lambeth  turned  away  in  silence, 
and  his  companion  watched  him  take 
twenty  steps  and  then  slowly  return.  "  I 
have  invited  Mrs.  Westgate  and  Miss 
Alden  to  Branches,"  he  said,  "and  this 
evening  I  shall  name  a  day." 

"And  shall  you  invite  your  mother 
and  your  sisters  to  meet  them  ?" 

"Explicitly!" 

"That  will  set  the  duchess  off,"  said 
Percy  Beaumont.  "  I  suspect  she  will 


278 


"  She  may  do  as  she  pleases." 

Beaumont  looked  at  Lord  Lambeth. 
"You  do  really  propose  to  marry  the 
little  sister,  then  ?" 

"  I  like  the  way  you  talk  about  it !" 
cried  the  young  man.  "  She  won't  gob- 
ble me  down  ;  don't  be  afraid." 

"  She  won't  leave  you  on  your  knees," 
said  Percy  Beaumont.  "  What  is  the  in- 
ducement ?" 

"You  talk  about  proposing  :  wait  till  I 
have  proposed,"  Lord  Lambeth  went  on. 

"  That's  right,  my  dear  fellow  ;  think- 
about  it,"  said  Percy  Beaumont. 

"  She's  a  charming  girl,"  pursued  his 
lordship. 

"  Of  course  she's  a  charming  girl.  I 
don't  know  a  girl  more  charming,  intrin- 
sically. But  there  are  other  charming 
girls  nearer  home." 

"  I  like  her  spirit,"  observed  Lord  Lam- 
beth, almost  as  if  he  were  trying  to  tor- 
ment his  cousin. 

"  What's  the  peculiarity  of  her  spirit  ?" 

"She's  not  afraid,  and  she  says  things 
out,  and  she  thinks  herself  as  good  as 
any  one.  She  is  the  only  girl  I  have 
ever  seen  that  was  not  dying  to  marry 


me." 


279 


"How  do  you  know  that,  if  you  haven't 
asked  her  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  how ;  but  1  know  it." 

"I  am  sure  she  asked  me  questions 
enough  about  your  property  and  your 
titles,"  said  Beaumont. 

"  She  has  asked  me  questions,  too ;  no 
end  of  them,"  Lord  Lambeth  admitted. 
"Bat  she  asked  for  information,  don't 
you  know." 

"Information?  Aye,  I'll  warrant  she 
wanted  it.  Depend  upon  it  that  she  is 
dying  to  marry  you  just  as  much  and  just 
as  little  as  all  the  rest  of  them." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  her  to  refuse  me — I 
shouldn't  like  that." 

"If  the  thing  would  be  so  disagree- 
able, then,  both  to  you  and  to  her,  in 
Heaven's  name  leave  it  alone,"  said  Percy 
Beaumont. 

Mrs.  Westgate,  on  her  side,  had  plenty 
to  say  to  her  sister  about  the  rarity  of 
Mr.  Beaumont's  visits  and  the  non-ap- 
pearance of  the  Duchess  of  Bays  water. 
She  professed,  however,  to  derive  more 
satisfaction  from  this  latter  circumstance 
than  she  could  have  done  from  the  most 
lavish  attentions  on  the  part  of  this  great 
lady.  "  It  is  most  marked,"  she  said — 


280 


"most  marked.  It  is  a  delicious  proof 
that,  we  have  made  them  miserable.  The 
day  we  dined  with  Lord  Lambeth  I  was 
really  sorry  for  the  poor  fellow."  It  will 
have  been  gathered  that  the  entertain- 
ment offered  Lord  Lambeth  to  his  Ameri- 
can friends  had  not  been  graced  by  the 
presence  of  his  anxious  mother.  He  had 
invited  several  choice  spirits  to  meet 
them ;  but  the  ladies  of  his  immediate 
family  wrere  to  Mrs.  Westgate's  sense — 
a  sense  possibly  morbidly  acute  —  con- 
spicuous by  their  absence. 

"  I  don't  want  to  express  myself  in  a 
manner  that  you  dislike,"  said  Bessie 
Alden ;  "  but  I  don't  know  why  you 
should  have  so  many  theories  about  Lord 
Lambeth's  poor  mother.  You  know  a 
great  many  young  men  in  New  York 
without  knowing  their  mothers." 

Mrs.  Westgate  looked  at  her  sister,  and 
then  turned  away.  "  My  dear  Bessie, 
you  are  superb  !"  she  said. 

"  One  thing  is  certain,"  the  young  girl 
continued.  "  If  I  believed  I  were  a  cause 
of  annoyance — however  unwitting — to 
Lord  Lambeth's  family,  I  should  insist — 

"Insist  upon  my  leaving  England," 
said  Mrs.  Westgate. 

281 


"No,  not  that.  I  want  to  go  to  the 
National  Gallery  again  ;  I  want  to  see 
Stratford  -  on  -  Avon  and  Canterbury  Ca- 
thedral. But  I  should  insist  upon  his 
coming  to  see  us  no  more." 

"  That  would  be  very  modest  and  very 
pretty  of  you ;  but  you  wouldn't  do  it 
now." 

"Why  do  you  say  'now?'"  asked  Bes- 
sie Alden.  "Have  I  ceased  to  be  mod- 
est ?" 

"  You  care  for  him  too  much.  A 
month  ago,  when  you  said  you  didn't,  I 
believe  it  was  quite  true.  But  at  pres- 
ent, my  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate, 
"you  wouldn't  find  it  quite  so  simple  a 
matter  never  to  see  Lord  Lambeth  again. 
I  have  seen  it  coming  on." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  Bessie.  "  You 
don't  understand." 

"My  dear  child,  don't  be  perverse," 
rejoined  her  sister. 

"  I  know  him  better,  certainly,  if  you 
mean  that,"  said  Bessie.  "And  I  like 
him  very  much.  But  I  don't  like  him 
enough  to  make  trouble  for  him  with  his 
family.  However,  I  don't  believe  in 
that." 

"  I  like  the  way  you  say  '  however,' ': 


Mrs.  Westgate  exclaimed.     "  Come ;  you 
would  not  marry  him  ?" 

"  Oh  no,"  said  the  young  girl. 

Mrs.  Westgate  for  a  moment  seemed 
vexed.  "  Why  not,  pray  ?"  she  demanded. 

"  Because  I  don't  care  to,"  said  Bessie 
Alden. 

The  morning  after  Lord  Lambeth  had 
had,  with  Percy  Beaumont,  that  exchange 
of  ideas  which  has  just  been  narrated, 
the  ladies  at  Jones's  Hotel  received  from 
his  lordship  a  written  invitation  to  pay 
their  projected  visit  to  Branches  Castle 
on  the  following  Tuesday.  "I  think  I 
have  made  up  a  very  pleasant  party,"  the 
young  nobleman  said.  "  Several  people 
whom  you  know,  and  my  mother  and 
sisters,  who  have  so  long  been  regrettably 
prevented  from  making  your  acquaint- 
ance." Bessie  Alden  lost  no  time  in  call- 
ing her  sister's  attention  to  the  injustice 
she  had  done  the  Duchess  of  Bayswater, 
whose  hostility  was  now  proved  to  be  a 
vain  illusion. 

"  Wait  till  you  see  if  she  comes,"  said 
Mrs.  Westgate.  "  And  if  she  is  to  meet 
us  at  her  son's  house,  the  obligation  was 
all  the  greater  for  her  to  call  upon  us." 

Bessie  had  not  to  wait  long,  and  it  ap- 


peared  that  Lord  Lambeth's  mother  now 
accepted  Mrs.  Westgate's  view  of  her 
duties.  On  the  morrow,  early  in  the 
afternoon,  two  cards  were  brought  to  the 
apartment  of  the  American  ladies — one 
of  them  bearing  the  name  of  the  Duchess 
of  Bayswater,  and  the  other  that  of  the 
Countess  of  Pirnlico.  Mrs.  Westgate 
glanced  at  the  clock.  "It  is  not  yet 
four,"  she  said  ;  "  they  have  come  early ; 
they  wish  to  see  us.  We  will  receive 
them."  And  she  gave  orders  that  her 
visitors  should  be  admitted.  A  few  mo- 
ments later  they  were  introduced,  and 
there  was  a  solemn  exchange  of  amen- 
ities. The  duchess  was  a  large  lady, 
with  a  fine  fresh  color ;  the  Countess  of 
Pimlico  was  very  pretty  and  elegant. 

The  duchess  looked  about  her  as  she 
sat  down  —  looked  not  especially  at  Mrs. 
Westgate.  "  I  dare  say  my  son  has  told 
you  that  I  have  been  wanting  to  come 
and  see  you,"  she  observed. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Mrs.  West- 
gate,  vaguely — her  conscience  not  allow- 
ing her  to  assent  to  this  proposition— 
and,  indeed,  not  permitting  her  to  enun- 
ciate her  own  with  any  appreciable  em- 
phasis. 


"  He  says  you  were  so  kind  to  him  in 
America,"  said  the  duchess. 

"  We  are  very  glad,"  Mrs.  Westgate  re- 
plied, "  to  have  been  able  to  make  him  a 
little  more  —  a  little  less  —  a  little  more 
comfortable." 

"  I  think  that  he  stayed  at  your  house," 
remarked  the  Duchess  of  Bays  water, 
looking  at  Bessie  Alden. 

"  A  very  short  time,"  said  Mrs.  West- 
gate. 

"Oh!"  said  the  duchess;  and  she  con- 
tinued to  look  at  Bessie,  who  was  en- 
gaged in  conversation  with  her  daughter. 

"Do  you  like  London?"  Lady  Pim- 
lico  had  asked  of  Bessie,  after  looking  at 
her  a  good  deal  —  at  her  face  and  her 
hands,  her  dress  and  her  hair. 

"Very  much  indeed,"  said  Bessie. 

"  Do  you  like  this  hotel  ?" 

"  It  is  very  comforta- 
ble," said  Bessie. 

"  Do  you  like  stopping 
at  hotels?"  inquired 
Lady  Pimlico,  after  a 
pause. 

"I  am  very  fond  of 
travelling,"  Bessie  an- 
swered, "and  I  suppose 


hotels  are  a  necessary  part  of  it.  But  they 
are  not  the  part  I  am  fondest  of." 

"  Oh,  I  hate  travelling,"  said  the  Count- 
ess of  Pimlico,  and  transferred  her  atten- 
tion to  Mrs.  Westgate. 

"  My  son  tells  me  you  are  going  to 
Branches,"  the  duchess  said,  presently. 

"  Lord  Lambeth  has  been  so  good  as  to 
ask  us,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate,  who  per- 
ceived that  her  visitor  had  now  begun  to 
look  at  her,  and  who  had  her  customary 
happy  consciousness  of  a  distinguished 
appearance.  The  only  mitigation  of  her 
felicity  on  this  point  was  that,  having  in- 
spected her  visitor's  own  costume,  she 
said  to  herself,  "  She  won't  know  how 
well  I  am  dressed  !" 

"He  has  asked  me  to  go,  but  I  am 
not  sure  I  shall  be  able,"  murmured  the 
duchess. 

"  He  had  offered  us  the  p —  the  pros- 
pect of  meeting  you,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate. 

"  I  hate  the  country  at  this  season," 
responded  the  duchess. 

Mrs.  Westgate  gave  a  little  shrug.  "  I 
think  it  is  pleasanter  than  London." 

But  the  duchess's  eyes  were  absent 
again ;  she  was  looking  very  fixedly  at 
Bessie.  In  a  moment  she  slowly  rose, 


286 


walked  to  a  chair  that  stood  empty  at  the 
young  girl's  right  hand,  and  silently 
seated  herself.  As  she  was  a  majestic, 
voluminous  woman,  this  little  transaction 
had,  inevitably,  an  air  of  somewhat  im- 
pressive intention.  It  diffused  a  certain 
awkwardness,  which  Lady  Pimlico,  as  a 
sympathetic  daughter,  perhaps  desired  to 
rectify  in  turning  to  Mrs.  Westgate. 

u  1  dare  say  you  go  out  a  great  deal," 
she  observed. 

"No,  very  little.  We  are  strangers, 
and  we  didn't  come  here  for  society." 

"I  see,"  said  Lady  Pimlico.  "It's 
rather  nice  in  town  just  now." 

"  It's  charming,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate. 
"  But  we  only  go  to  see  a  few  people — 
whom  we  like." 

"  Of  course  one  can't  like  every  one," 
said  Lady  Pimlico. 

"  It  depends  upon  one's  society,"  Mrs. 
Westgate  rejoined. 

The  duchess  meanwhile  had  addressed 
herself  to  Bessie.  "  My  son  tells  me  the 
young  ladies  in  America  are  so  clever." 

"  I  am  glad  they  made  so  good  an  im- 
pression on  him,"  said  Bessie,  smiling. 

The  duchess  was  not  smiling;  her 
large,  fresh  face  was  very  tranquil.  "  He 


is  very  susceptible,"  she  said.  "He 
thinks  every  one  clever,  and  sometimes 
they  are." 

"  Sometimes,"  Bessie  assented,  smiling 
still. 

The  duchess  looked  at  her  a  little,  and 
then  went  on :  "  Lambeth  is  very  sus- 
ceptible, but  he  is  very  volatile,  too." 

"  Volatile?"  asked  Bessie. 

"  He  is  very  inconstant.  It  won't  do 
to  depend  on  him." 

"Ah,"  said  Bessie,  "  I  don't  recognize 
that  description.  We  have  depended  on 
him  greatly — my  sister  and  I — and  he 
has  never  disappointed  us." 

"  He  will  disappoint  you  yet,"  said  the 
duchess. 

Bessie  gave  a  little  laugh,  as  if  she 
were  amused  at  the  duchess's  persistency. 
"I  suppose  it  will  depend  on  what  we 
expect  of  him." 

"  The  less  you  expect  the  better,"  Lord 
Lambeth's  mother  declared. 

"  Well,"  said  Bessie,  "  we  expect  noth- 
ing unreasonable." 

The  duchess  for  a  moment  was  silent, 
though  she  appeared  to  have  more  to  say. 
"  Lambeth  says  he  has  seen  so  much  of 
you,"  she  presently  began. 

288 


"  He  has  been  to  see  us  very  often  ;  he 
has  been  very  kind,"  said  Bessie  Alden. 

"I  dare  say  you  are  used  to  that.  I 
am  told  there  is  a  great  deal  of  that  in 
America." 

"  A  great  deal  of  kindness  ?"  the  young 
girl  inquired,  smiling. 

"  Is  that  what  you  call  it  ?  I  know 
you  have  different  expressions." 

"We  certainly  don't  always  under- 
stand  each  other,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate, 
the  termination  of  whose  interview  with 
Lady  Pimlico  allowed  her  to  give  atten- 
tion to  their  elder  visitor. 

"  I  am  speaking  of  the  young  men 
calling  so  much  upon  the  young  ladies," 
the  duchess  explained. 

"  But  surely  in  England,"  said  Mrs. 
Westgate,  "the  young  ladies  don't  call 
upon  the  young  men  ?" 

"Some  of  them  do  —  almost!"  Lady 
Pimlico  declared.  "  When  the  young 
men  are  a  great  parti ." 

"  Bessie,  you  must  make  a  note  of 
that,"  said  Mrs.  Westgate.  "  My  sister," 
she  added,  "  is  a  model  traveller.  She 
writes  down  all  the  curious  facts  she 
hears  in  a  little  book  she  keeps  for  the 
purpose." 


The  duchess  was  a  little  flushed ;  she 
looked  all  about  the  room,  while  her 
daughter  turned  to  Bessie.  "  My  brother 
told  us  you  were  wonderfully  clever," 
said  Lady  Pimlico. 

"He  should  have  said  my  sister,"  Bessie 
answered — "when  she  says  such  things 
as  that." 

"  Shall  you  be  long  at  Branches?"  the 
duchess  asked,  abruptly,  of  the  young  girl. 

"  Lord  Lambeth  has  asked  us  for  three 
days,"  said  Bessie. 

"I  shall  go,"  the  duchess  declared, 
"  and  my  daughter,  too." 

"  That  will  be  charming !"  Bessie  re- 
joined. 

"  Delightful !"  murmured  Mrs.  West- 
gate. 

"  I  shall  expect  to  see  a  great  deal  of 
you,"  the  duchess  continued.  "  When  I 
go-  to  Branches  I  monopolize  my  son's 
guests." 

"  They  must  be  most  happy,"  said  Mrs. 
Westgate,  very  graciously. 

"I  want  immensely  to  see  it  —  to  see 
the  castle,"  said  Bessie  to  the  duchess. 
"  I  have  never  seen  one — in  England,  at 
least ;  and  you  know  we  have  none  in 
America." 


"Ah,  you  are  fond  of  castles?"  in- 
quired her  Grace. 

"  Immensely !"  replied  the  young  girl. 
"  It  has  been  the  dream  of  my  life  to 
live  in  one." 

The  duchess  looked  at  her  a  moment, 
as  if  she  hardly  knew  how  to  take  this 
assurance,  which,  from  her  Grace's  point 
of  view,  was  either  very  artless  or  very 
audacious.  "  Well,"  she  said,  rising,  "  I 
will  show  you  Branches  myself."  And 


291 


upon  this  the  two  great  ladies  took  their 
departure. 

"  What  did  they  mean  by  it  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Westgate,  when  they  were  gone. 

"  They  meant  to  be  polite,"  said  Bessie, 
"  because  we  are  going  to  meet  them." 

"It  is  too  late  to  be  polite,"  Mrs. 
Westgate  replied,  almost  grimly.  "  They 
meant  to  overawe  us  by  their  fine  man- 
ners and  their  grandeur,  and  to  make  you 
lacker  prise" 

"Lacker  prise  f  What  strange  things 
you  say !"  murmured  Bessie  Alden. 

"  They  meant  to  snub  us,  so  that  we 
shouldn't  dare  to  go  to  Branches,"  Mrs. 
Westgate  continued. 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Bessie,  "the 
duchess  offered  to  show  me  the  place 
herself." 

"Yes,  you  may  depend  upon  it  she  won't 
let  you  out  of  her  sight.  She  will  show 
you  the  place  from  morning  till  night." 

"You  have  a  theory  for  everything," 
said  Bessie. 

"And  you  apparently  have  none  for 
anything." 

"  I  saw  no  attempt  to  '  overawe '  us," 
said  the  young  girl.  "  Their  manners 
were  not  fine." 

292 


"They  were  not  even  good!"  Mrs. 
AVestgate  declared. 

Bessie  was   silent   a   while,  but    in    a 
few  moments  she  observed  that  she  had 
a    very   good    theory.     "They   came   to 
look  at  me,"  she  said,  as  if  this  had  been 
a  very  ingenious   hypothe- 
sis.    Mrs.  AVestgate  did 
it   justice  ;   she  greet- 
ed it  with  a  smile, 
and    pronounced    it 
most  brilliant,  while, 
in    reality,   she   felt 
that  the  young  girFs 
scepticism,  or  her 
charity,  or,  as   she 
had  sometimes  called 
it  appropriately,  her 
idealism,  was  proof  against 
irony.     Bessie,  however 
remained  meditative  all  the 
rest  of  that   day  and  well  on  into  the 
morrow. 

On  the  morrow,  before  lunch,  Mrs. 
Westgate  had  occasion  to  go  out  for  an 
hour,  and  left  her  sister  writing  a  letter. 
When  she  came  back  she  met  Lord  Lam- 
beth at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  coming 
away.  She  thought  he  looked  slightly 

293 


embarrassed ;  lie  was  certainly  very  grave. 
"  I  am  sorry  to  have  missed  you.  Won't 
you  come  back  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  can't. 
I  have  seen  your  sister.  I  can  never 
come  back."  Then  he  looked  at  her  a 
moment,  and  took  her  hand.  "  Good-bye, 
Mrs.  Westgate,"  he  said.  "  You  have 
been  very  kind  to  me."  And  with  what 
she  thought  a  strange,  sad  look  in  his 
handsome  young  face,  he  turned  away. 

She  went  in,  and  she  found  Bessie  still 
writing  her  letter — that  is,  Mrs.  Westgate 
perceived  she  was  sitting  at  the  table  with 
the  pen  in  her  hand  and  not  writing. 
"  Lord  Lambeth  has  been  here,"  said  the 
elder  lady  at  last. 

Then  Bessie  got  up  and  showed  her  a 
pale,  serious  face.  She  bent  this  face 
upon  her  sister  for  some  time,  confessing 
silently  and  a  little  pleading.  u  I  told 
him,"  she  said  at  last,  "  that  we  could  not 
go  to  Branches." 

Mrs.  Westgate  displayed  just  a  spark 
of  irritation.  "  He  might  have  waited," 
she  said,  with  a  smile,  "  till  one  had  seen 
the  castle."  Later,  an  hour  afterwards, 
she  said,  "  Dear  Bessie,  I  wish  you  might 
have  accepted  him." 

294 


"  I  couldn't,"  said  Bessie, 'gently. 

"  He  is  an  excellent  fellow,"  said 
Mrs.  Westgate. 

"  I  couldn't,"  Bessie  repeated. 

"  If  it  is  only,"  her  sister  added, 
"  because  those  women  will  think 
that  they  succeeded — that  they  par- 
alyzed us !" 

Bessie  Alden  turned  away ;  but 
presently  she  added,  "They  were 
interesting ;  I  should  have  liked  to 
see  them  again." 

"  So  should  I !"  cried  Mrs.  West- 
gate,  significantly. 

"  And  I  should  have  liked  to  see 
the  castle,"  said  Bessie.  "  But  now 
we  must  leave  England,"  she  added. 

Her  sister  looked  at  her.  "  You 
will  not  wait  to  go  to  the  National 
Gallery?" 

"  Not  now." 

"Nor  to  Canterbury  Cathedral «" 

Bessie  reflected  a  moment.  "We 
can  stop  there  on  our  way  to  Paris," 
she  said. 

Lord  Lambeth  did  riot  tell  Percy 
Beaumont  that  the  contingency  he 


.p. 


was  not  prepared  at  all  to  like  had  oc- 
curred ;  but  Percy  Beaumont,  on  hear- 
ing that  the  two  ladies  had  left  London, 
wondered  with  some  intensity  what  had 
happened — wondered,  that  is,  until  the 
Duchess  of  Bayswater  came  a  little  to  his 
assistance.  The  two  ladies  went  to  Paris, 
and  Mrs.  Westgate  beguiled  the  journey 
to  that  city  by  repeating  several  times : 
"  That's  what  I  regret ;  they  will  think 
they  petrified  us."  But  Bessie  Alden 
seemed  to  regret  nothing. 


I     ( 


